


What it Means to Be A Demon

by Aethelflaed



Series: Sawdust of Words [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Torture, Ancient History, Angry Crowley (Good Omens), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Aziraphale and Crowley fighting, Battle, Canon Compliant, Chaptered, Character Development, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley's Name is Crawly | Crawley (Good Omens), During Canon, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), I think we all know what you don't see is much worse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Long, M/M, Mesopotamia, Non-Graphic Violence, Not gonna lie way more hurt than comfort, Please do not take that as evidence this story is less dark than I've already stated, Ten-year-old me would have been super upset, That's actually probably the worst, This is going to be a rough one, Threats of Violence, Whump, Wordcount: Over 30.000, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), ancient warfare, non-graphic but still, really sorry, some on-screen torture/abuse but not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-16 09:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21506002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed
Summary: After an especially harrowing trip to Hell, Crawley arrives in a tiny Mesopotamian village, where he encounters a familiar face.But Aziraphale soon realizes Crawley isn't acting like his old self. Between his foul mood, his mysterious injuries, and his refusal to talk, the demon is certainly hiding something.What has brought Crawley to Gu'Edena? And is there anything Aziraphale can do?(Contains scenes of violence and abuse, though not graphically described. Tags will be updated with each chapter; check beginning notes for chapter-specific TWs.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Sawdust of Words [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1451122
Comments: 263
Kudos: 366





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Threats of violence, mild violence, Crowley being very intense
> 
> Please leave a comment if you feel anything else should be tagged or TW'd.

_ Five days. Five days in Hell. _

_ He could be up on Earth right now, doing what he did best. Drinking. Carousing. Tempting humans into one more indulgence, one more round of gambling, one more argument, one more flirt. Learning all the fascinating ways a tiny nudge could ripple through a city, sowing chaos in its wake. _

_ Up on Earth, small things could have power. A loose brick in a wall, a stone in a horse’s hoof, a rotten plank, a demon whispering from the shadows. _

_ In Hell, small things were prey, and nothing more. _

_ “Crawly,” a familiar voice rumbled through the endless shuffling of feet on all sides. _

_ The long black and red snake darted through the forest of legs, looking for someplace to hide. Several demons kicked or stomped as he shot past, instinctively attacking anything that came in range. One foot caught the side of his head, but he didn’t waste time trying to retaliate. _

_ “Crawly…” the voice called again. _

_ There, ahead. A crack in the wall, too small for anything human-shaped but perfect for a serpent – a serpent much smaller than he currently was. _

_ If he was fresh – if his mind was alert and not clouded by pain and fear and exhaustion – he could have shrunk to the size of an earthworm, a flatworm, a microscopic cell. As it was, he could just about manage something the size of a human arm, just small enough to push through the crack and coil into the space inside the wall. _

_ It wouldn’t be enough. _

_ Five days. He’d thought this would be simple, come in, get his orders, maybe an update on what Hell was planning next. Just the smallest bit of structure or organization and he probably could have been in and out but oh, no. Hell had to have its chaos. He couldn’t find Malthus anywhere, leaving Crawley with the choice between asking Beelzebub personally – an excellent way for a bottom-ranked demon to get his skull crushed – or waiting around in the corridor while every demon with a grudge or a bad day came by to take it out on him. _

_ Judging by the number of wounds he’d received, it had been a particularly bad day. Something big was brewing. Something that had a lot of demons very unhappy. _

_ Two sets of footsteps reverberated through the floor. Firmer, angrier than the general crowd of shambling Nameless. Hastur and Ligur. He didn’t even know what their problem was this time, but long experience had taught Crawley that when he heard his name shouted in that way, it was time to make himself scarce. _

_ He coiled even tighter, keeping his belly pressed to the ground to track their movement. At this distance, he couldn’t even see the demons passing by outside, just a foggy blur of motion. He tried to keep his tongue from flicking out; he couldn’t taste anything except the overpowering background stench of Hell. _

_ The first set of feet approached. Crawley could feel the moment that they passed in front of the crack, paused, then moved on. One down. Now he – _

_ An arm shot through, grabbing him tight around the neck before he could try and bite, pulling him back out. The next second he was snout-to-nose with Hastur’s pale face. _

_ “Hullo, Crawly.” _

_ “It’ss Crawley,” he corrected sullenly. _

_ “I don’t hear any difference.” _

_ Held away from the ground, his world shrank; he couldn’t sense anything but the fingers clamped behind his jaw, see anything but the black lesions covering Hastur’s grey skin, hear anything but that voice, murky and faint and distorted. Panic began to set in. Despite himself, knowing the worst thing he could do now was show fear, his lower body began to twist, struggling to get away. _

_ Then Ligur’s dark face hovered into view at the edge of his vision. And another fist grabbed his tail, pulling him taut until he couldn’t move at all. _

_ “We heard you were…loitering around here,” Ligur said, voice dangerously soft, leaning close to be sure the serpent could hear him. _

_ “Jusst waiting for orderss…” More pressure on his jaws, forcing his mouth open. The smells washed over his tongue – rot and blood and swamp and death. _

_ “Bit late, aren’t you?” asked Ligur, giving his tail a tug, hard enough to break one of the half-healed gashes on his side open again. “Orders were given out almost a week ago.” _

_ “What did your master tell you to do?” wondered Hastur. _

_ Their grips eased a little, just enough for Crawley to take a breath. “Don’t know,” he muttered. “Can’t find him.” _

_ “But you know he’s planning something.” Ligur twisted Crawley’s snake body around his fist, pulling it tight again, picking at the scabs and scars on his skin with hard nails. _

_ “He’s always planning something,” Hastur reminded them. “It’s not right, a demon always…thinking like that.” _

_ Probably why you avoid it so much, Crawley did not say; Hastur and Ligur might be idiots, but they were violent idiots. He never should have let himself get into this position. “He hass… many planss. I don’t know which one you –” _

_ “He’s been in a meeting with the Dark Council,” Hastur said. It was apparently meant to be conversational, but Hastur could make ‘nice weather’ sound like a threat. “Been there for days.” _

_ “Makes you wonder what they’re talking about,” Ligur commented. _

_ “Crawley would tell us if he knew. Wouldn’t he?” This time it was Hastur who pulled, fingers hooked around Crawley’s skull, until vertebrae stretched and popped all the way down his body. _

_ Crawley’s mind raced for a way out – anything to tell them – they were so easy to outsmart – if he could just get a breath, just say a word – _

_ “Ah, my lords! I see you’ve found my missing pet.” An arm – light brown skin and sharp, hooked nails – appeared before Crawley’s face. “Come here, my pretty.” _

_ The two Dukes of Hell loosened their grip and Crawley shot up that arm, coiling around Malthus’s shoulders, resting his head in the short iridescent green and violet hair. The warmth of it filled his body, giving him enough strength to stop quaking in fear, slow the erratic beating of his heart. _

_ Malthus might only be an Earl, but he was the Armorer of Hell. In the War, he’d led dozens of legions, coordinated some of the most ruthless attacks on the strongholds of Heaven. Now he ruled over the sectors of Hell that dealt in violence and warfare amongst humanity. Not even Hastur would dare try to snatch Crawley back from around his very neck. _

_ From his perch, he couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation – just a low buzz from the two Dukes. Now and again Malthus responded, voice vibrating up Crawley’s skin – Of course my lord. – It is going extremely well, as you know, my lord. – I am sure Lord Beelzebub knows best. _

_ Suddenly, Ligur’s face came into view again, close, peering at Crawley before he walked away. “You should keep a closer watch on this one. He could get into trouble one day.” _

_ “Yes, I’m rather afraid he will, my lord.” Malthus reached up and rubbed a finger against Crawley’s jaw, scratching his chin like a dog. He hated it, but leaned in with pretended pleasure. “A little discipline will remind him of his place.” _

_ \-- _

THE PLAIN OF GU’EDENA

MESOPOTAMIA

c. 2400 BC

\--

It was the most backwards, out-of-the-way mudhole Crawley had had the misfortune to visit for almost a century. Just a scrambled lump of twenty-five or thirty mud-brick buildings dropped in the middle of a barley field. All were a single story – two or three were apparently affluent enough to plaster an outer wall – and the peasants heading in for their noon meal seemed as comfortable crossing roofs as walking between buildings.

Crawley had hoped to get a drink. More accurately, he had hoped to get well and truly drunk, until the memory of his trip to Hell was just an uncomfortable blur in the back of his mind, and the itch under his skin was too numb to be distracting. Until he could completely forget what he had been ordered to do. But this did not look promising at all.

His sandaled feet sank into the thick clay alongside the irrigation ditch, occasionally causing clods of earth to break off, tumbling into the viscous brown water that flowed from the river behind him. If he wasn’t careful, the walls of the ditch could collapse, flooding the nearby field.

He made no attempt to be careful.

He could  _ feel _ the boundary growing closer, the line between field and settlement. Humans liked to draw boxes around everything, to give places definition and purpose. But Crawley was attuned to what came in between, the lines themselves, the liminal spaces that were not quite one thing or another, where the fabric of reality was just a little less real.

All ethereal and infernal beings could sense them – where your wings could be visible, where your most unearthly powers were strongest – but they called to Crawley especially.

Something else called to him, too. Another occult being, and this one without the taint of Hell on it. Apparently, Malthus’s intel was correct. Most demons would take that as a sign to be careful, cautious – but Crawley had had enough of sneaking and hiding.

Another ditch marked the boundary of the village, slicing through the mud directly in front of him. It could hardly be called a defensive measure – he could easily leap across it with barely a running start – but it was enough to make him pause and look for a crossing.

Over to the right, a bridge constructed of reeds, a simple plank but sturdy enough to walk across. Between it and the fields of chest-high barley stood a large pillar of stone, nearly as tall as Crawley – smooth gleaming limestone reflecting the light of the sun. More elaborate than the usual boundary stele, a third of it was covered in the cramped triangles humans used to document everything. The demon hardly gave them a glance.

The top of it, though, drew his eye: a relief carving, painted in bright colors, an elaborate scene of chariots, soldiers, some fancy king leading one army against another. A battle.

Crawley could feel something gnawing away at his stomach, something other than the sharp pain in his gut; emotions he couldn’t afford to feel right now. He had a job to do. He was a demon, and demons didn’t feel –

A human – a  _ peasant _ – charged out of the barley, colliding with Crawley, very nearly knocking him into the mud. Crawley caught his balance, and the human, slamming him back into the stele, grabbing his arms with a tightly coiled grip. Henna-painted nails dug into human flesh.

“You  _ really _ need to watch where you’re going.” Anger. That, at least, was acceptable for a demon to feel. And Crawley had more than enough of that to share.

“I-I-I…” the human tried to respond. He was hardly even fully grown, as humans counted these things – eighteen, nineteen years. Dark hair cropped very short, sun darkened skin, bare-chested, wearing nothing but a simple linen wrap around his waist, all the color faded to mud-stained grey. His dark gaze had locked on to the golden serpent eyes of the being that towered over him, and now every muscle froze in abject terror.

Which was going to make getting any response nearly impossible.

“Hey. Stay focused.” He snapped his fingers in front of the peasant’s eyes, not for any miracle, just to get him to pay attention. “I need alcohol. Now. Is there any place in this disgusting mud pile I can get a decent beer?”

“M…W...N…” The peasant couldn’t seem to find a single word to say.

“Stop that,” Crawley snapped, slapping him on the side of the head – not too hard. Damage would probably make getting an answer  _ more _ difficult. “I asked you a question, I expect an answer. Drink. Good drink. Where?”

“Th-the Temple of Nisaba. They welcome travelers. Provide food and shelter.”

Crawley considered what he assumed was the temple. A single-story rectangle, not much larger than the other buildings, outside plastered and whitewashed to draw the eye. It was built on a platform to elevate it above the other buildings, but the platform was also mudbrick, and not especially tall.

“No, I don’t do temples. Give me another option.”

“There – there really isn’t…” he twisted his fingers into the muscle of the man’s upper arm until the peasant was gasping. “M-my lord! We c-can’t accommodate a traveler so fine as yourself, but if you wait here I c-can…I can bring you food and drink from my own home!”

“Do I look like I want to stand around in this shit hole until you get around to serving me?” Crawley dug his carefully manicured nails into the other shoulder as well. His breath was coming quicker now, pain in his ribs almost enough to make him gasp. “I might just get impatient. Do you want to see me impatient?”

Sixteen hundred years. Sixteen  _ miserable _ centuries at the bottom of Hell’s pecking order, not able to advance one  _ bit _ up the hierarchy. In Hell, everyone unloaded their pain and frustration on someone beneath them, which meant that if anyone  _ anywhere _ had a bad day, eventually it was Crawley that suffered.

He was so sick of it. So sick of the feel of hooks piercing his skin, so sick of the scent of his flesh burning, the taste of rot and filth and death at the back of his throat. So sick of not having someone else to take it out on.

Well he had someone now.

Tightening his grip, Crawley shoved the peasant back until the stele shifted behind him. The man was muscular, broad, but no match for the strength he could feel in Crawley’s demonic grip. The terror in his eyes reached all the way down to his soul.

“Do I look like the sort of person to be trifled with? I asked for a place to get a drink, and I won’t  _ stand _ for –”

“Crawley? Is that you?”

The demon froze.

It had been a hundred and thirty-eight years since he’d heard that voice. The only voice that could completely derail his anger. The one voice that could always stop him in his tracks.

The peasant twisted out of his rapidly slackening grip. Crawley heard feet slap across the reed bridge, fading away across the dry mud on the far side. He didn’t care.

Slowly his antimony-lined eyes turned to the figure standing across the ditch.

Gently curling white hair, as short and neat as the day they met. A simple pure white linen wrap, tied above the waist and hanging past the knees, somehow free from even one spot of mud. A white sheepskin cloak, delicate curls of wool matching the hair, held in place by a silver pin – two ears of grain stylized as wings, crossed by a reed. No other jewelry or adornment, just a small stylus tucked behind one ear. Those expressive hands, poised in front of the chest, still now but ready to take flight in motions and gestures as soon as the words began to flow. And his face...

Crawley dreaded what he would see in those pale blue eyes.

Their gazes locked.

Uncertainty. Anxiousness. Surprise. Caution. No fear. No hatred. No judgement. Not this time.

He took a breath, trying to slow the ragged, uneven beat of his heart. Trying to ease the sneer off his face, take the arrogant bitterness from his voice. He wondered if he’d ever completely succeed at that.

“Aziraphale,” he said, fighting back the smile that the angel always brought to his face. “What on heaven and earth are  _ you _ doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This one is going to be intense, so buckle in. This story covers one of the darkest days in Aziraphale and Crowley's history. It's going to get bad, but it's as bad as I ever plan to get. Also, when this is done, there will be FLUFF.
> 
> Ten relatively short chapters, but total length about 30,000 words - I'm going to post twice a week for as long as my real-life schedule will allow (Wednesday night, and Friday night/Saturday morning), dropping to once a week if necessary.
> 
> Please feel free to comment below, ESPECIALLY if you feel that a tag or TW was missing!
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta reader kindathewholepoint who kept me going when this started getting too much even for me.


	2. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale meets Crawley at the border of Gu'Edena, but something doesn't seem right...

_Even wrapped around Malthus’s shoulders, nearly blind and deaf, Crawley knew when they had entered the Armory. It was roomy, by the standards of Hell – almost two hundred square feet, free from the press of bodies. The smell of rot faded, replaced by the tang of metal – bronze from the weapons, iron from the blood._

_The walls would be covered in weapons, stretching up to the unseen ceiling in ranks of swords and spears and clubs and things humans didn’t even have names for yet. Guttering oil lamps casting a greasy light that reflected off bronze and threw sharp shadows in every direction._

_There would be a table in the middle of the room, and red patterns on the walls and floor. The patterns were different every time, and not all of them were dyes._

_Crawley darted down Malthus’s leg to press himself against the curve of the wall. The cold was unpleasant, but Crawley didn’t like being touched in this form. Or at all, really, but snake bodies in particular were not wired for it._

_After a moment, he began to get a sense for the room – yes, the rounded walls of the Armory, no corners in which to hide. Shuffling footsteps. Four, no, five demons, including Malthus, walking towards him._

_“Now I hope you aren’t planning to sulk.” A rough, scratched voice; it had the sound of one that had been beautiful, before years of abuse shattered it. A sharply taloned finger ran across Crawley’s head and down his back. He squirmed, fighting the urge to retreat further into the shadows. “I was only gone a few days. Come along.”_

_The pressure eased. Crawley reared up and shifted back to his human form – tall, narrow, red hair. His preferred shape, but not as suited for hiding and lurking in Hell. He wore a knee-length black goatskin kilt and little else. Malthus liked his demons dressed as warriors._

_All his jewelry, his accessories, anything that might make him stand out, had been left in his hiding place back on Earth, except what he carried in a small pouch at his waist._

_Last of all, Crawley unfurled his charcoal-black wings, resisting the urge to wrap himself against the cold._

_"There now, isn’t that better?” Malthus smiled. He often smiled, but it never quite reached his black eyes. The Earl of Hell’s wings were out, as always, folded over his back like a cloak, feathers the same grey-brown as his skin except for where they were partially barred black._

_Crawley nodded, eyes flicking around the room to catch every detail, now that he could see again. By the door – a heavy wooden thing with a metal bar across it – stood three more demons, bottom-rankers like Crawley, one step above the Nameless. They were also kilted like warriors, and across their faces and bare chests he could see the sores that marked the first stage of the inescapable rot of Hell. It infected any demon who stayed longer than a few days, creeping corruption reflected in flesh and soul._

_And if you stayed too long…_

_The last figure walked an endless circle around the Armory on cracked, bleeding feet. Every inch of her flesh swollen and discolored from rot, putrefaction so advanced the skin had begun to split, showing glimpses of muscle and sinew. Her wings dragged across the ground behind her, flight feathers blood red and twisted, coverts dark as fresh bruises, where they grew at all. The front of her tattered robes were soaked in the dark blood of a fresh gut wound, but whatever injury she carried had been there for at least six hundred years._

_She paused, rotten arms moving without thought to pull down a sword, polish the curved bronze until it gleamed, replace it on the wall, then walked on to the next. She had been at this task for centuries, stopping only when Malthus found her some other duty for a moment._

_Nameless._

_That mindless state awaited any demon who lost their sense of self. For the bottom-ranked, it was an eternal struggle for definition, personality, any identity to cling to against the constant pull towards oblivion._

_Crawley’s eyes turned back to the other three demons. Slim, muscled torsos, close-cropped hair, just a bare hint of gold and bronze and black across the scalp, flat, dull eyes in expressionless faces. Pretty warriors, a matched set._

_What did that make him?_

_Malthus placed a hand on Crawley’s shoulder, stopping him from walking over to join them. “It’s been too long, my pretty. Let me have a look at you first.”_

_Crawley suppressed a shudder as Malthus ran a finger along his jaw._

\--

Aziraphale was shocked to see Crawley. Not only because he seemed almost ready to tear out poor Ennugi’s throat with his own teeth, though that was quite surprising in and of itself. The demon had always had a temper, a barely restrained edge of chaos lying just below the surface.

But he’d never been _violent_ before, not like this. Seeing him standing there, teeth bared, wiry muscles strained under the elaborate lines of henna running all down his arms, filled the angel with a fear he couldn’t begin to articulate.

Thankfully, at the mention of his name, Crawley immediately released Ennugi. The young man stumbled away, breathless with terror, until he reached Aziraphale’s side.

The angel placed a hand on his shoulder, checking for injury – just a little pain and light bruising. He healed both, soothed the fear, and patted Ennugi comfortingly. “Go in peace. And give my greeting to your parents.”

Ennugi gave a short bow, then ran off into the village, across mud baked solid in the summer heat.

Pushing his emotions back under control, Aziraphale turned toward the demon standing across the ditch, beside the now-tilted memorial stele. Tall and imposing as ever. He seemed to be growing out his hair again, as dark red oiled ringlets fell down around his ears and jaw line. He wore a linen wrap of darkest black – a color no natural dye could match – which hung from the left shoulder and ended just past his knees – too short to be called a dress, too tight to be a tunic. In typical Crawley fashion, it wasn’t quite like anything anyone else was wearing, and somehow managed to be completely scandalous and utterly fashionable.

Crawley seemed finally to have composed himself. He turned those intense slit-pupil eyes – lined with a dark kohl that emphasized their unusual shape – and smirked in his usual smug manner. “Aziraphale,” he said, tone as arrogant and annoyed as ever. “What on Heaven and Earth are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same,” Aziraphale sniffed, adjusting the cloak over his shoulders. “Last time I saw you, you swore you’d never visit the hinterlands again. You’d spend all your days carousing in the cities and enjoying the – what did you call them? – carnal pleasures of Earthly civilizations?”

The angel took a step forward onto the reed bridge that spanned the boundary ditch that separated the village of Gu'Edena from the farmland beyond. The line between settlement and field, order and chaos, tingled across his skin and in the back of his mind. He shouldn’t need the strength it lent him – not for Crawley – but it made him feel better, all the same.

Crawley grimaced at the memory. “I’m pretty sure it was _corporeal delights_ , but I was very drunk at the time so you can’t hold me to anything I said.” Aziraphale shot his most disapproving look. “Angel, as I recall, you were drinking, eating roast boar, and delighting in some decidedly non-spiritual activities right alongside me.”

Well, yes. The festival in Uruk had certainly gotten more than a little out of hand. Gabriel had had quite a lot to say about _proper conduct while representing the interests of Heaven among humans,_ though Aziraphale couldn’t see any harm in a bit of indulgence now and then.

At least this time neither of them had wound up passed out or violently ill, but the less said about their one experiment with _sura,_ the better.

“The music in Uruk was quite good,” Aziraphale finally conceded with a sigh. “That young lady with the lyre was really very impressive. Though there was no need for you to…ogle her like that.”

“I was admiring her taste in jewelry,” Crawley snapped, raising a henna-painted hand to his own adornment, strings of beads alternating red carnelian and a black that may have been obsidian, hanging in a bundle from his neck. A chain of dark bronze links circled his head like a crown, set with more carnelians inscribed with complex white patterns. The silver armlet on his right bicep resembled a snake, complete with lapis lazuli eyes.

“Be that as it may, you still haven’t explained why you’re here, at a tiny rural settlement, ten miles from any city of note.”

“Maybe I’m just passing through.” Crawley inspected the red-brown henna coating his nails. “Maybe I’m tired of the scene in Umma and I want to see what’s going on in Lagash. Or maybe I’m heading all the way to Elam.”

Aziraphale folded his hands and waited. He could feel his wings pressing themselves into reality, faint strands of mist and light arcing up from his shoulders, and he made no effort to hide them.

Finally, Crawley made a noise like a snarl. “Orders, Angel. What else? Even I can’t completely ignore a direct order. They want me here, so here I am.”

“Was terrorizing the locals an explicit part of your orders, or are you just trying out a new hobby?”

Crawley stalked forward, the reed platform bowing under their combined weight as he pulled himself up, towering over Aziraphale, despite only being three inches taller. The earthy, wood-rich scents of the oils he wore – cypress, cedar, frankincense – surrounded the angel, but even those were overwhelmed by the smell of brimstone, and something else. Something rotten. Decay and death.

Aziraphale struggled to hold his ground, not to back away or flinch, even as Crawley transfixed him with those piercing eyes, even as the black shadows of Crawley’s wings began to darken the air behind him. From anyone else it would have been a challenge, a threat. Perhaps it was even now.

 _You don’t need to be afraid of Crawley,_ he shouted at his heart, which seemed to be trying to escape through his ribs. _Crawley has never hurt you._

The demon raised his henna-painted hand in an abrupt gesture, yellow eyes narrow, head tilting sharply. Aziraphale took an involuntary step away. But he made himself meet that gaze and take that step back.

The raised hand landed lightly against his chest, forefinger circling the silver brooch that held his cloak.

“And what, may I ask, is an _angel of the Lord_ doing in a malaria ridden field, wearing the badge of a pagan goddess? A goddess from a foreign state, I might add.”

Aziraphale brushed the hand away and jabbed a finger at Crawley’s chest, not quite confident enough to make contact. “Current policy states that… _playing nice_ with the local priesthoods will help establish us in the community and serve the greater good.” There had been many such changes lately. Gabriel had assured them all that it was a question of _settling in_ and _playing the long game._ Naturally, Aziraphale didn’t question the wisdom of the Archangels’ choices, even when they directly contradicted policy from only a century or two ago. “It certainly makes my current mission simpler.”

“And what mission might that be?” Crawley’s voice had a dangerous edge to it. Crawley always had an edge to his voice, so that shouldn’t be alarming. It was, though.

“Spreading the light of civilization. Bringing knowledge to the people.” He kept his voice even, but he knew the pride he felt in his assignment – something he could _enjoy,_ something that just felt _right_ – shone through his wings, making them a little less misty, a little more clearly defined.

“Really?” Crawley leaned closer, sneering, the scents of fire and rotten flesh almost overpowering. “What kind of knowledge?”

“All kinds of knowledge. Legal theory. Astronomy. Architecture.” The reeds creaked beneath their feet. “For example, I happen to know this platform can only hold our combined weight for about a minute, so you’ll have to step back soon if you don’t want to ruin that…ensemble you’re wearing.”

Crawley jabbed a finger into Aziraphale’s chest again and laughed – briefly, harshly – but took a step back onto mostly solid land. “Good to see you finally grow some backbone, Angel. Not a bad look for you.”

Moving away from the boundary made his wings fade back into the ether, but even as they did so, Aziraphale could have sworn there was something…misshapen about the shadows surrounding the demon.

Crawley grinned – or at least bared his teeth in a generally non-threatening way. “This knowledge wouldn’t happen to include brewing alcohol, would it? I hear they’ve perfected nineteen types of beer, but I’ve only managed to try seven.”

Aziraphale folded his arms. “It’s possible we have something that might interest you at the E-dubba. But you have to promise me you aren’t going to terrorize the people.”

The eyes flashed. “Angel…”

“I mean it, Crawley.” He folded his hands behind his back and planted his feet firmly. Wings flared behind him – just a heat haze, a suggestion of white like the sun reflecting off the ripples of the river – but enough to make it clear he was serious. “It is lovely to see you again, I’m sure, and I have no objection to a purely social visit. But you are in a particularly foul mood, and frankly I don’t need that sort of… _chaos_ upsetting what I’m doing here.”

“Chaos? Really.” Crawley grabbed at a strand of barley growing on his side of the ditch, pulling out a long green shoot. He studied it in his hands, twisting it into knots. “Fine, Angel, if that’s what it takes, I won’t cause any trouble today. Just come in, have a drink, leave before dark. Happy?”

Not entirely. Crawley wouldn’t meet his eyes, and he still bristled with a barely contained rage Aziraphale had rarely seen.

But in the lines of the demon’s lean face he could detect…anxiety. Worry. Pain.

And Aziraphale could never stand to see someone in pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:  
> \- Sura: a strong distilled alcohol originating on the Indian subcontinent  
> \- Gu'Edena (or Gu'Edin): "Edge of the Grassland," a fertile area along the Tigris River, belonging to the kingdom of Lagash; from Eden/Edin, a raised grassland in central Mesopotamia, site of several cities, including Umma.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Thanks as always to my beta reader, kindathewholepoint, who checked this for errors.
> 
> Next chapter is still scheduled to be posted on Wednesday, and this will be a longer one. I'll see you then!


	3. Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sitting on a bench and sharing a drink - just like old times? 
> 
> But Crawley continues to be evasive, and Aziraphale uncovers something that makes him demand answers...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Abuse, non-graphic violence, wing injuries, comments and injuries suggesting self-harm (but it isn't), brief metaphorical/implied non-con sexual touch (non-graphic).
> 
> Let me know in the comments if anything more specific should be tagged

_Crawley wiped his hands on his kilt, trying not to flinch as pain shot up his arm. Shifting from one form to the other hadn’t healed any injuries, just rearranged them. Whatever damage Hastur had done to his spine seemed to have moved to his elbow._

_Malthus’s hand stroked down Crawley’s side, brushing over a cracked rib. Crawley drew in a breath, which only made his chest feel worse. “Stand up straight, Crawly.”_

_“Crawley,” he corrected, trying to push his shoulders back. Something pulled in his gut, a sharp ache; the gaping wound where the blade had sunk in two days ago was nearly closed, but something inside had ruptured._

_“I don’t like to repeat myself.” One taloned hand settled on his waist, the other on his chest. With a sharp push, Malthus snapped him into the correct stance, so suddenly Crawley felt the barely-healed stomach wound tear open again._

_“Nnnh,” he managed._

_“That’s better.” Malthus raked his nails up Crawley’s arm, tracing the bicep, hesitating over a thumb-sized sore, the first sign of rot. Five days in Hell._

_Thanks to his time on Earth, his skin was by far the least corrupted in the room. Even Malthus, despite all his efforts, had open sores on his face and the backs of his hands, a bald patch worn into one wing. But he glared at Crawley’s like it was a personal insult._

_His black eyes shot up to Crawley’s face, and he gently touched a red curl, hanging down to the jawline. “This is getting too long, my pet.”_

_“It’s the style –”_

_“I don’t care.” Fingers tangled in Crawley’s hair. With one sharp pull, Crawley fell, sprawled on his ass at Malthus’s feet. The second pull half-lifted him, dangling from a hundred screaming pains in his scalp._

_Crawley’s fingers rose of their own accord, scratching at Malthus’s grip, trying to relieve the pressure in some way. The Armorer jerked on Crawley’s hair again, rattling his brain, then abruptly let him fall to his back on the red-patterned floor._

_“Long hair is a liability in battle. Cut it off.”_

_Crawley desperately wanted to remind Malthus that he wasn’t actually a warrior. Under the Earl’s direction, he had orchestrated battles, flamed tensions between cities and tribes, but the actual fighting he always left to the humans._

_But speaking his mind had only ever brought him trouble, for as long as he could remember and, from what he could reconstruct, he was certain that had been true Before, as well. At some point, he’d learned to hold his tongue. “Yes, Master,” he muttered, climbing back to his feet._

_“Good.” The fingers continued brushing across his torso, finding every wound. Not healing them – oh, no, where would be the fun in that? – but pressing, exploring, listening with an indulgent smile to the sounds Crawley struggled not to make._

_Across the room, three sets of eyes carefully didn’t watch, though each was cataloguing every sign of weakness. Who would give him trouble later? Probably Haze. The golden-haired demon had been Malthus’s favorite until Crawley came along, six hundred years ago._

_Jealousy among demons could get…complicated._

_Then, with a shiver, Crawley felt Malthus’s fingers in his wings, combing gently through the feathers, pressing one of his primaries back into shape. “I’m glad to see these, at least, are unharmed.” His hands rose back to the leading edge to run through again. “So pretty.”_

_Unlike the other touches, this one felt good. Pleasurable._

_Intimate._

_Crawley hated it the most._

_“Well, Master.” He swallowed, staring at the patterns on the floor, wishing he could vanish, shrink down to nothing and hide from that touch. “I know how you like to be…cheered up after a Council meeting.” Crawley spread his wings slightly, and hated himself a little more._

_“Ah, Crawly, my pet.” Malthus worked his fingers a little more deeply into the black coverts. “You always know just what I like. I’m so glad to have found another demon who actually uses his mind sometimes. Do you want to know what the Council was talking about this time?”_

_“I’m sure it’s nothing that concerns me.”_

_“Mmm.” The Earl of Hell leaned closer, whispering in Crawley’s ear. “Apparently, we’re negotiating a truce. With Heaven.” Suddenly, the fingers in his wings turned to claws, digging themselves into feathers and flesh. “After sixteen hundred years they want to talk about_ rules of engagement _. Maintaining the_ balance of power.” _He jerked down hard, tearing, shredding – Crawley couldn’t hold back his cry of pain. “As if it isn’t our right to slaughter every one of those_ bastards _for what they did to us! As if the humans aren’t_ ours _to do with as we wish!”_

_Crawley gasped, eyes clenched shut, trying to keep himself from sinking to his knees, until suddenly the onslaught was over._

_Hands on his shoulders again, this time just resting. Crawley opened his eyes to see the floor around him covered in charcoal feathers, dotted with blood. “Don’t you agree, my pet?”_

\--

“You do know I can’t actually step inside a temple, right?” Crawley grumbled, eyeing the long rectangular building. It was only half the size of even the smallest in Umma, covered in simple plaster. The “sacred mound” intended to raise it above the level of the surrounding settlement only added two and a half, maybe three feet. Still, it wasn’t the size that mattered.

“Can’t you? I beg your pardon, I thought that didn’t apply to pagan deities.”

“Hn. If the belief is genuine, it can still be uncomfortable,” Crawley shrugged, scratching at the skin of his left arm until he realized what he was doing. _It’s not that bad, just ignore it,_ he ordered himself. At least as they got further from the boundary ditch, the pain in his wing faded a bit. Not vanished, just more removed from reality.

“But I know I saw you in the Temple of Inanna in Uruk. Talking to the, er…”

“Sacred prostitutes.” Crawley’s grin grew wider as Aziraphale turned slightly pink. “Yes, lovely young ladies. I managed to tempt Amarsin and Puabi into giving up their sacred calling for a life of violence, banditry and general mayhem somewhere out towards Elam.” From what he’d heard, they’d bought a village, settled down and gotten married. They would be seventy years dead by now. Usually not a good idea to follow up on the humans you’d met.

“I don’t know how I feel about that,” the angel said, though his tone suggested broad but unspecified disapproval. “But if you were able to enter the city temple…”

“Diluted belief. Between the prostitutes, the record keepers, and the soldiers using it as a base, it was about as sacred as the marketplace.” He could feel the warmth coming off the village temple from thirty feet away. Peasants must love their agriculture goddess. “This one’s a different story.”

“Fascinating,” Aziraphale murmured. Crawley shot a glare towards him, but it appeared to come from genuine interest. “It works…not exactly the same for angels, but I do get some benefits from being near a center of belief. Perhaps there are still…similarities between our kinds.”

“Nnh.” Crawley grunted, not at all interested in that train of thought. “Why Nisaba? A goddess from Umma. The two kingdoms are enemies.”

“Not – oh, no I wouldn’t say that,” Aziraphale rushed in. “Certainly, there has been, well, _violence_ in the past. A rather large battle was fought on the plain outside the village, oh, forty or fifty years ago now. You, ahem, you saw the stele commemorating the peace, just by the outer ditch.” There was a very distinct lack of accusation in his tone. It was perfectly audible in its absence.

“The thing with the soldiers on it? Very gaudy. Didn’t like it.”

The angel made a noise of exasperation. “Well, disregarding your taste, the lords of Umma ceded Gu’Edena to this kingdom, and there has been no fighting since. We’re about halfway between the two capital cities, most villagers have at least one ancestor from Umma, and worship many of the same gods. Besides, Nisaba is a well-liked goddess in all the kingdoms between the rivers, which I think you’d have noticed if you ever stepped outside the cities.”

“Well, I have a lot of reasons _not_ to do that.” Crawley shot one more glare at the plastered building on the man-made hill. “So, temple, yes or no?”

“No, we’re going to the E-dubba next to it.” Aziraphale pointed to a small building standing in the shadow of the sacred mound: single story, mud brick, white-plastered on the front face. It had a wooden door, the only one Crawley had seen in the village.

“And this is where you’re staying?” Aziraphale nodded. “Very impressive, Angel. I mean, it’s living in squalor compared to my standards, but much better than your usual.”

Crawley wished he didn’t sound like such an ass. Was it really so hard? A civil conversation, a genuine compliment? Just once in a while? But he was fresh out of Hell and it seemed to permeate his every word, no matter what he did.

The angel sniffed and shot him a cold look. “I don’t know _why_ you are acting this way, but I am determined that you won’t rile me. I shall take that as a compliment, regardless of what you meant.” He furrowed his brow in concentration for a moment before giving an almost-genuine smile. “Thank you, how kind.”

“Shut up.” That wasn’t what he wanted to say. He often found it hard to find the right words around Aziraphale. “So.” He scuffed his sandal across the mud; it was drier here, away from the canals, solid, almost as a rock. “You’re, what, a priest of Nisaba now?”

“Oh, no, _getting along_ with the priesthood is acceptable, but actually _joining_ would be taking things rather too far. No, I’m posing as an agent of King Eannatum in Lagash. More specifically, I’m a scribe.”

Crawley was still glaring at the baked mud path, the small building beside the temple, the blue sky – anything but the angel. But there was no mistaking that peculiar lift in his voice, the one that accompanied his starry-eyed smile when he thought of his favorite things.

“A scribe? Financial transactions, accounting, all that? Yeah, I can see you being good at that. They’d need someone who was fussy and fastidious and basically allergic to real fun.”

Crawley stole a glance out of the corner of his eye, just long enough to see Aziraphale grinding his teeth with the effort of pretending that was a compliment. It was almost enough to make him smile. If it wasn’t for the ache in his stomach, this could even have been fun.

“Thank you. Yes.” Aziraphale’s smile could have been held on by rivets. “I do find I am well-suited to the job despite the difficulties.” He turned to look at Crawley, who was already innocently inspecting the sky for any sign of clouds. “But there’s a great deal more to it than that. I’ll show you over lunch.” The angel pulled open the wooden door and waved a hand. “After you.”

\--

Crawley had been right, of course; by the standards the cities, the tablet house of Gu’Edena was hardly impressive at all. The E-dubba in Lagash had been truly something to behold. Two stories high, wood plank floors polished smooth, dozens of scribes to be found working day and night alongside scholars of every description. Recording observations; gathering knowledge.

Learning to understand the world around them.

It gave Aziraphale such a thrill to think about it, he almost forgot where he was: the small, dim antechamber in Gu’Edena, walls plastered but bare. The central chamber ahead was brightly lit, and Crawley walked towards it while the angel trailed behind.

Something else wasn’t right. Something about the way Crawley moved: hunched, one arm tight to his side. Before he could work out what it was, they’d stepped back into the bright sunlight of the noon sky.

All the important work was performed in the central chamber; that required more than the unsteady light of lamps. The ceiling opened in a vast light well, letting in all the light and heat of the day. The benches sat under the well, or near the edges, to take full advantage; only the outermost few feet in every direction stood beneath the overhang, allowing a bit of shade from the relentless heat. Doors led off to the smaller chambers, living quarters and storage rooms.

Crawley, idly scratching his arm, paused by the hearth at the center of the room, where a large clay pot nestled in the smoldering embers. The demon took an exaggerated sniff, then raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale. 

“Yes,” the angel confessed with a sigh, coming to stand next to him. “The food does leave something to be desired.”

That was an understatement; with the fruit harvest months away, meals generally consisted of barley porridge, three times a day, with barley bread at dinner and, on special occasions, fish and barley stew. The scribes were certainly wealthy enough for better provisions, but there wasn’t much to be had so far from the city.

Had he known Crawley was coming, he would have tried harder to put aside a few eggs and some cheese, but there would be neither for a few more days at least. Perhaps a good meal would have done something about the sour look on the demon’s face.

Then Aziraphale’s eyes fell on the little pots next to the hearth and he brightened. This was just the thing to cheer Crawley up. “You know, the honey is very good. From the orchards on the other side of the village. The beekeepers have refined several flavors.” He selected a pot marked by two complex clusters of wedges; individually, they said something entirely unrelated, but together, they indicated a certain flower that only yielded a little honey every spring. He held it out with an eager smile and his most persuasive voice: “There’s only a little left, Crawley, but would you like to try some... _apple blossom honey?”_

Crawley’s glower only deepened. “I didn’t come all this way for porridge and honey, Angel. I asked for alcohol.”

“Oh.” Confused, hurt, Aziraphale put the small jar back down. He studied Crawley’s face for a long moment, making a decision. “I see. Take a seat and I’ll fetch the beer.” He gestured to a long bench under the overhang, and Crawley shuffled off to find some relief from the heat of the day.

As he hurried through one of the side doors, Aziraphale finally realized what had been bothering him. They had walked all the way across the village, and not once had he seen the demon swagger.

\--

Crawley sprawled on the bench, kicking his legs out to get comfortable, trying to ease the sharp pain that had returned in his ribs and his gut. He realized he was scratching at his forearms again – probably had been since he entered the room – and shook his hand angrily, searching for something to distract him. There were square, flat lumps of clay all around. He picked one up and found it covered in more of those tiny pressed triangles that made his eyes water. What Aziraphale saw in this was beyond him.

Tossing it aside, he glanced up the ladder toward the roof above. He could hear voices up there: human. Male. Young.

“The apprentices like to eat on the roof,” Aziraphale explained, emerging from the storeroom with an enormous jar that seemed too heavy to carry in one arm, though he managed. In the other hand he clutched two cups, and had several clay tablets wedged below his elbow.

A human – another male, slightly older in appearance than Crawley and the angel’s habitual forms – stepped out of the storeroom behind him, taking the large pitcher in both hands. Aziraphale smiled gratefully and murmured something Crawley couldn’t hear. There was a short back-and-forth until Aziraphale patted the man on the shoulder and led him over.

“This,” the angel gestured to the human, who was dressed in a rich red robe consisting of far too much thick fabric, held together by a very elaborate wheat-and-stylus pin, “is Ilanum, the head scribe. He and Watrum came down from Nippur, oh, ten years ago now. They’re the first scribes to come to Gu’Edena, so there’s plenty of work.”

“It is very profitable,” said scribe, with a guarded smile, placing the jar on the ground near Crawley’s feet. “Everyone wants their agreements written down, so they pay us to record them. But, no one can read, so they pay us again later to make sure the other party is holding to the agreement.”

Crawley’s mouth twisted into something like a smile. “So you charge them both ways. That sounds like my kind of arrangement.”

Aziraphale grimaced slightly. “This is my…associate. Crawley. He’s travelling from Umma.”

“Crawley of Umma.” The human reached out to clasp his arm. He met Crawley’s eyes – flinching a little at the slit pupils – and there was more hostility than welcome in his gaze.

Crawley kept his arms firmly at his sides, ignoring the itch running up their length. “Not _of_ Umma. Not really of anywhere.”

The scribe shot a look at Aziraphale, who shrugged and whispered in his ear. “You are welcome to our ale and food, traveler,” the human said, formally if a little stiffly. “If you so wish it, we can also provide a pallet for you to sleep on.”

“Won’t be necessary. I’ll leave long before dark. Wouldn’t want to waste a minute longer in this pit than I have to.” He glared until the human gave a short bow, muttered once more to the angel, and walked away.

Crawley held out a hand. “Enough chatter. I’m here to drink, Angel.”

“That,” Aziraphale snapped, face darkened like a storm cloud, “was _unnecessarily rude_. I don’t know what’s come over you, but –”

“I’m a _demon,_ remember?” Again he scratched at the skin under his henna patterns, then pulled his hand away before he could ruin them. “We don’t go around acting _polite.”_

“You could have at least shaken his hand.”

“And accepted him as my host? I don’t need that sort of…moral obligation. I’m nobody’s guest. I’m a drifter. Beer. Now.”

Aziraphale sat on the bench to his right in a huff, but filled the two cups from the large pitcher. He handed one to Crawley with a cold, “Cheers,” but didn’t raise his own in salute.

The beer was a little weak, but had a pleasantly dark flavor, and just enough honey sweetener to cut the bitter edge. The feel of it sliding down his throat was exactly what he needed. “Not bad. Almost worth the trouble it took to get here.”

“And why, exactly, are you here again? You never actually said.”

Crawley drained his cup and quickly refilled it. “Told you. Orders.” He took another drink, trying to ignore the look Aziraphale gave him, the way the angel nervously tapped the side of his cup.

Two or three more cups and maybe he wouldn’t feel the burn in his arms. Another couple should take care of the splitting pain in his back. But the twist in his heart and stomach – there probably wasn’t enough alcohol in this whole blessed village for that.

They sat in near-silence, listening to the echo of voices from the roof, until Crawley couldn’t stand it anymore. “So. Apprentices. Teaching a bunch of young men to be as boring as you?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale ignored the insult so blithely he may not have heard it at all. “Well, I’m doing that while I’m here, at least. My main duty is…this.” He put down his cup and proffered several more clay slabs, covered in those bird-pecked triangles.

“Very fascinating,” Crawley drawled. “Well worth leaving the city and abandoning all decent food for.”

“But it is.” Aziraphale arranged the tablets on his lap. “The humans in the cities have begun studying the world around them. They’re learning so much, but it stays in the hands of a few. My job is to take these tablets from settlement to settlement – anywhere with scribes – and see that the knowledge spreads. Regardless of the boundaries between cities and kingdoms. Why, with this shared knowledge, think what they could accomplish! They could –”

“Build a giant tower to challenge the power of Heaven?”

It cut across Aziraphale’s enthusiasm like a ton of bricks on a reed bridge. “That…” he started weakly, “that was a one-time thing…”

“Yeah, _one time_ you try to build a tower a mile high and boom –” he snapped his fingers, just for effect, but Aziraphale flinched anyway – “permanent confusion. Now all the nations speak separate languages, and you can’t get two cities to work together without someone needing to stab someone else in the face first.” Aziraphale refused to answer, stacking and restacking the tablets in his lap. “Hell is loving this you know. Chaos, discord, distrust – we’re thriving just now.”

“We are countering you. Spreading peace and order –”

“Trying to undo your own mistake.” Crawley drained his cup again. “And _you know_ the Archangels just want to stick their fingers into everything the humans do. If the people of Shinar had just flattered Gabriel a bit more, that Tower would probably reach the _moon_ by now.”

Even though Crawley had paused for breath – and more beer – Aziraphale made no effort to protest or object. That was unusual. The angel never missed an opportunity to assure him that everything was going according to the Great Ineffable Plan of God, and not just the random whims of a group of Celestial Beings on a power trip. The only thing more depressing than his _single-minded cheerful determination to believe despite all evidence to the contrary_ (or “faith”) was the fact that he was probably right.

Instead, Aziraphale had stood up and started tidying the bench. Well, he’d call it tidying – it seemed more like picking up random discarded tablets and styluses and depositing them in other, random locations.

“Angel – ”

“Yes, fine, your side is doing _very well_ right now. Don’t think I haven’t heard reports of demons walking abroad, not even hiding what they are –” he shot a glance at Crawley’s appearance but said no more, turning back to his tablets – “while we pretend allegiance to these… _temples._ Battles and plagues wiping out entire cities, humans exchanging their souls for lives of greed and petty pleasures, angels going missing – I’m not _ignorant_ to what’s going on. But this is just a temporary setback. The people will unite again, the goodness of Heaven will be revealed, and your lot will be thrown back into the Pit for all eternity. It will be _really quite nice_ once it’s all over.” His confidence grew as he spoke, ending at almost half his usual level of conviction.

Crawley ground his teeth and caught his nails digging into the flesh of his arm again. “I’m sure you can hardly wait.”

“Wait for what?” he demanded, finally looking Crawley straight in the eye. “For the final triumph of Good over Wickedness? For the day I can walk freely without hiding what I am? For the last vestiges of your damn Rebellion to be swept away so I can –” he cut himself off with a shuddering breath, but his blue eyes never wavered. “Yes, Crawley. I look forward to that every day.”

They held gazes for a long time. It was Crawely who broke away first.

“But,” Aziraphale continued, taking a seat, “in the meantime, I can be civil, I can share my food and drink with a drifter, and I can take care of these.” He placed five tablets on his lap again, almost reverently.

A thousand comebacks arose in Crawley’s mind – insults, arguments, even just getting up and storming out. He’d done it before, and somehow this nagging self-righteous _politeness_ was worse than when they’d simply fought. But if he left too soon…

He clenched his jaw, shifted his cup to his left hand, and asked, “So what do those blessed tablets say, anyway?”

He tried to keep staring ahead, to ignore the smile that he _knew_ was spreading all across the angel’s face, but couldn’t resist turning just a little. Just enough to let the edge of it warm him.

“Well,” Aziraphale carefully held up two, one in each hand. “These are letters from merchants traveling abroad, and while they mostly talk about business transactions, they also tell us a little bit about the lands beyond the rivers. This one is from Susa, in the Elamite lands, and _this_ one is from Harappa.”

The demon rolled his eyes. “Never heard of it.”

“That would be where those lovely carnelians in your hair come from. The white etching is a giveaway.”

Crawley’s henna-painted fingers flew up to the band of jewels around his head. Most of what he wore he simply manifested, like his long black robe, altering or replacing them as his tastes changed. But when he saw something he really liked – this chain of deep red jewels, the snake armband around his bicep – he would buy it, steal it, whatever method seemed most appropriate, and keep it until it fell apart. “Do you like them?” he asked, feeling a little foolish. He never cared what others thought about his style. He just _owned_ it.

Aziraphale pursed his lips, making a show of considering. “Yes. They’re a little... _gaudy,_ but they suit you. I like the necklace better.”

The smile that threatened to cross his face was almost impossible to hold back, but Aziraphale had already turned his eyes to the tablets. “Anyway, the Harappan one is unique because it has notes on their script and language.” He pointed to a collection of strange, thin shapes that appeared stamped around an image of an elephant. “This is the only copy with the original characters. We, that is, the scribes haven’t worked out how to replicate them yet.”

“Hmm.” Notes written in characters he couldn’t understand, describing other characters he couldn’t understand in a language he’d never heard of. But for some reason, Aziraphale seemed fascinated. “Are they all like that? Letters from foreign lands?”

“Oh, no,” the angel shuffled through his pile. “This one is a sort of treatise on time keeping, this one describes new law codes out of Kish, and this one –” he held it out to Crawley – “is a collection of observations about the stars.”

Before Crawley could even think about it, he’d accepted the tablet into his hands, the cup of beer forgotten beside him.

He loved the stars. Tried to keep it a secret – demons weren’t supposed to love anything apart from carnal pleasures and causing pain – but of course Aziraphale knew. Aziraphale had seen him gaze with wonder and longing as each tiny jewel revealed itself in the evening sky. Had seen him trace the path of the Milky Way with his fingers. Seen the raw joy on his face when he learned their names again.

But he’d never told the reason. That his strongest, clearest memories from before the Fall were of creating stars and nebulae, shaping them like clay in his hands, sparking them to life with a snap of his fingers, placing them to gently spin, to fall forever in a graceful dance that no one but he would ever recognize.

Until he met Aziraphale, it was the only time he could remember being happy.

“What does it say?” He was surprised how rough his voice sounded. His eyes scoured the meaningless symbols. That one looked like a star, didn’t it? Or was he just desperately looking for any pattern?

“I can teach you,” Aziraphale said, leaning over. “But you have to hold it the right way first.” He deftly turned the tablet with one hand, repositioning Crawley’s arm with a light touch, the casual air of a teacher correcting a student’s posture.

Crawley tried to pull away, but the fingers on his wrist stiffened, and he knew that Aziraphale knew.

“What…?” Tablet forgotten, the angel pulled Crawley’s arm towards him, eyes frantically searching among the chaotic, twisting lines of henna. When those eyes went wide, Crawley knew he’d found them – the long, deep scars running from the heel of his hand to the crook of his elbow. “Crawley, _what is this?”_

“It’s…it’s not what you think,” he started, mouth dry.

Aziraphale had already turned his arm over to inspect the other side, tracing the scars with a light touch up the back of his hand. Putting the tablet almost carelessly aside, he lifted and inspected each finger with a grip that was so gentle but so irrefutable, finding the tiny scars that ran their length all the way to the tips. The nail beds were mostly healed, at least, the manicure hiding any signs of disfigurement.

“Angel, it’s really not what it looks like.”

“Really? Because it _looks like_ someone used a very small, very sharp knife to peel the flesh off your arm like a piece of fruit.”

Crawley swallowed. “Fine. It’s exactly what it looks like.”

Still holding his wrist, Aziraphale reached for the other hand, which Crawley tried to hide behind his back. The angel glared at him until he gave in, holding out his left arm to show a matching set of scars.

“Why, Crawley?”

It was very hard to maintain his cold demeanor and detached arrogance when he couldn’t look Aziraphale in the eye. The pain he saw there hurt more than Malthus’s knives ever had. “It’s Hell, Angel. We’re demons. What did you expect?”

“That’s not an explanation.” Aziraphale grabbed each of Crawley’s wrists, studying the half-healed scars.

The demon tried to think of something to say, some way of brushing off the injuries before Aziraphale got too curious, but it was hard to concentrate on anything other than the way those soft, gentle fingers gripped him like bronze, and the way the warmth spread up his arms to –

Warmth?

“Stop it, Aziraphale,” he snapped, jumping to his feet, knocking the forgotten cup of beer to the ground where it shattered into a dozen shards. But the angel’s hands refused to let go, as the warmth continued to flow to his shoulders, down his body, filling him with a sense of peace.

The mental effect was easily shaken off, but the physical he couldn’t fight. All the scars vanished from his arms, the pain in his back and his gut was gone, his rib no longer ached when he tried to breathe – even his broken wing seemed healed, and it didn’t exist on this plane of reality. “You… _idiot.”_

“You’re welcome,” the angel coldly replied, finally letting go.

“You shouldn’t have – that all would have been healed in a few days!”

“Well, it’s healed now.”

“Don’t you understand?” Wounds healed faster on Earth than in Hell, but not in less than a day. Someone would notice. Malthus would notice.

“No, Crawley, _I don’t understand.”_ Aziraphale stood up, squaring his shoulders, something desperate in his eyes. “Tell me what happened. _Who did this to you?”_

“What, this?” He held up his arms, and Aziraphale flinched as if the scars were still there, still bleeding. “This was voluntary. I _asked_ for this. This is what we do in Hell _for fun.”_

“I don’t believe it.” But the angel took a step back.

“Yes you do! You’re always talking about how demons are _wicked_ and _violent_ and _cruel._ This is what that looks like. This is what it means to be a demon.”

“But you aren’t like that,” he protested weakly.

“Aren’t I?” Crawley turned away, crossing his arms. He could still remember the look of terror on that peasant’s face back in the fields. He’d been so _angry;_ he didn’t know what he’d been about to do. But he probably would have enjoyed it.

Maybe he wasn’t different. Maybe that was just a lie he told himself.

“Why did you come to Gu’Edena?”

Crawley stirred the pieces of broken mug with his sandal. No more beer today, it seemed. Pity.

“I can’t tell you that, Angel. My side wouldn’t like it.”

“I…I wish you would trust me.” Spoken so softly, but it pierced Crawley right through the heart.

He glanced back to find Aziraphale sitting on the bench again, hands folded in his lap. Waiting.

“Fine.” Crawley slumped back on the bench, being careful not to crush the angel’s tablets. “Hell is…really into warlords right now. Temptations are out. Violence is in. So, I’m working with a warlord. Doing reconnaissance.”

“And…” Aziraphale gestured to his outfit. “This is supposed to help you blend in as you spy out the kingdom?”

“No one said anything about _blending in_ .” He plucked at his fine black linen robe and sighed. “If you must know, we _are_ supposed to be fitting in better. There’s a lot of talk Below about how your lot are being accepted into the communities and making changes from the inside, while we bash around the edges with all the grace of a hammer to the collarbone.” Aziraphale cringed at that. “So when I go back to the warlord I’m assigned to, it will be in my…warrior outfit.” He spat that distastefully.

“I suppose it’s not exactly your style, but…”

“Angel, I hate being in a box.” He lifted a hand to stroke the strings of red and black beads at his throat. “Humans, they like to create boxes. Men, women, children, adults, nobles, peasants, priests, merchants – everyone fits in a box, and every year those boxes get smaller, more confining. The last thing I want to do is play by their rules, but if that’s what I’m ordered to do…” He tugged at the necklace, snapping it free, letting the beads coil into his hand. “I can’t disobey orders. But I hate hiding who I am as much as you do.”

Aziraphale pressed his hands against his knees, studying them as an excuse to avoid Crawley’s gaze. “So. When you say you’re here –”

“Master Aziraphale!”

Both sets of eyes shot up the ladder to the wide opening in the roof, looking for the source of the thin, high, slightly panicked voice.

“Oh, no,” Crawley muttered.

“Ah, yes.” Aziraphale jumped to his feet, conversation apparently forgotten. “Those would be my students.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Thank you all for reading! This chapter was a tough one to write, and it only gets harder from here. About 2/3 of the way through is when I realized this was not going to be a quick story...
> 
> History notes:  
> \- Elam (Elamite lands): Kingdom in modern-day Iran (Susa was one of its major cities)  
> \- Nisaba: Sumerian goddess of writing, learning, accounting, grain, and the harvest  
> \- E-dubba (or Edubba, or Eduba): Sumerian "tablet house" or "scribal school."  
> \- Shinar: Biblical site of the Tower of Babel  
> \- Harappa: One of the two largest cities in the Bronze Age Indus Valley civilization (modern Pakistan)  
> \- Kish: politically prominent city in northern Mesopotamia
> 
> Thanks to my beta, kindathewholepoint, who managed an 11th hour read-through when I decided to do some major changes two days before Thanksgiving.
> 
> Next chapter comes out on Friday. I apologize for this being basically the worst holiday gift ever, but that only applies to Americans so I suppose it's ok, and also I guess everyone here likes angst.
> 
> Comments are always appreciated!


	4. Interpersonal Conflict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crawley and Aziraphale are interrupted by the arrival of two scribal students. But Crawley notices that something isn't right...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: physical abuse, discussion of child abuse and bullying

_Another day in Hell. Another mark of rot, this one appearing on his leg._

_Still no orders. Still no clue to Malthus’s big plan. A few hints about the Dark Council’s negotiations, but that couldn’t help him._

_No healing, either. He’d done what he could – stop a little bleeding, ease a little pain – and the rest was just a question of time. Demons could heal almost anything, given enough time._

_Something Crawley knew from personal experience._

_Demons couldn’t really heal their own bodies, not any major damage. They had to rely on each other’s mercy, as if there was any of that to be found in Hell._

_For a long time, Crawley had assumed it was part of their punishment. But he was starting to suspect the same was true for angels. Certainly, he’d never seen Az –_

Don’t even think the name! Not here!

_He needed something to take his mind off the pain. He needed to know what was going on._

_Crawley rose stiffly to his feet, still breathing carefully around the cracked rib, folding his wings close to his shoulders. Thanks to Malthus, they now looked as tattered and mangled as the other demons’._

_They shuffled around the corridors outside the Armory, wings of grey and brown and black, and other dull burnt-out colors. There was space enough to walk here, almost, without running into another demon. Almost._

_It wasn’t much contact – the edge of his wing brushing across Haze’s chest – but it was enough. Most demons, as they slid towards the oblivion of lost identity, became quieter, subservient, numb. A few went the other way – chaotic, violent, little better than Hell Hounds._

_Haze was one of those._

_“You bloody snake!” Haze shrieked, seizing Crawley by the throat, spinning him back against the wall. Crawley kicked and scratched, trying anything to break the grip. Haze’s hand swung at his face, the impact making him see flashes of light. “You need to start showing some respect, Crawly.”_

_“It’s. CRAWLEY!” With a fresh burst of energy, he surged forward, managing to bring the heel of his hand against Haze’s nose with enough force to break it._

_It felt good._

_Crawley had never been a violent demon. He was a tempter. A trickster. He relied on his wits and his speed and his charm._

_But sometimes he got angry._

_It took three other demons to pull him off Haze and slam him back against the wall._

_“I’ll call you whatever I want,” Haze snarled, nose bleeding freely. The demon stood up with a large rock clutched in one hand. “Snake. Worm. Piece of shit.” The other demons pulled Crawley’s right wing – the one that had brushed Haze’s chest – spreading it wide against the wall as he struggled against them. “And if you can’t keep your pretty wings to yourself, I don’t think you deserve to have them.”_

_The rock slammed into the delicate bones of Crawley’s wing._

_On the third hit, Crawley felt his ulna snap._

_He lost count after that. It was after the sixth or seventh that Malthus finally intervened._

\--

The two youngest students in the E-dubba scrambled down the ladder. They were dressed, as boys usually were, in just a simple short wrap around their hips – bare feet splattered with mud that never quite came clean, shoulders just a little paler than those of the men who worked in the fields all day.

“Good day, boys.” Aziraphale couldn’t help smiling. He was often awkward with children – with humans in general – but he’d been working with them for weeks, and these two were especially bright. He was rather taking a shine to them. “Is it time for afternoon lessons already?”

“No,” said Ekur, the older boy, ten years old and narrow-shouldered. “The bigger boys were making Neti cry again.”

“’m _n-not_ crying,” said Neti, climbing off the ladder behind his friend, but the thickness of his voice betrayed him. The seven-year-old boy was small for his age.

“Not again.” Aziraphale gently moved Neti’s hands away from his eyes, which were puffy and swollen from tears. And from the fresh bruise on his left cheekbone. “I believe I told you, you shouldn’t talk to them. It just starts trouble.”

Sniffing and rubbing his nose, Neti turned his dark eyes to study his feet. “D-didn’t. They came to m-me.”

“We were just eating in the corner,” Ekur chimed in, “and we weren’t talking to _anyone._ Then Kuwari and the others came and started saying mean stuff and they hit him and tried to kick me but I’m real fast so we got away. But we had to leave our food.”

Aziraphale listened while he probed the bruise forming on Neti’s cheek. It would be a big one, and he couldn’t heal it without arousing suspicion. He did his best to ease the pain at least. “Well, I’m glad you came to me, but you’ll just have to find a way to get along.” He didn’t like saying it, but dealing with _interpersonal conflict_ wasn’t his strength. He was here to bring _knowledge_ , not to solve the social problems of young boys. He wouldn’t even know where to _begin._

“Angel. His back.” Crawley had risen from the bench and was studying the boys with a golden glare that could break through a wall.

The two students immediately shrank behind their instructor. “It’s alright,” Aziraphale said coaxingly. “Come on out. This is my – er – this is Crawley. He’s visiting the E-dubba for a bit. He won’t hurt you.” He shot Crawley a look that screamed, _Don’t make a liar out of me,_ but the demon only narrowed his eyes slightly. Aziraphale checked the red welts on Neti’s back. “And these are nothing to worry about. They’re just –”

“’m a b-bad student,” Neti explained, looking uncertainly at Crawley’s painted nails. “D-don’t hold my stylus right. My m-marks ‘r crooked.”

“So you _beat him?”_ Aziraphale had seen Crawley angry before, but the fury in his eyes now was almost enough to make him take the children and leave, very quickly. “You, of all people Aziraphale?”

“No! I’m not in charge of discipline.” And he realized the children really were in no danger – that anger was entirely directed at him.

Aziraphale couldn’t explain – not in front of the children – how he did his best to minimize this. Tiny bursts of healing, small enough to go unnoticed. Hovering around Neti to correct him before the other instructors saw his mistakes. Giving him extra practice, whenever he could. But the days were so long, and the boy’s little fingers got so tired, and there were too many students who needed Aziraphale’s attention.

“And you just let the children torment each other? That’s acceptable to you?”

“They’re children. This is how they are.” That and Kuwari’s father spent a great deal of food, oils and other gifts to Ilanum and Watrum. The scribes preferred to look the other way when his child misbehaved. “Crawley, you know I can’t – if I interfere, I’ll be reassigned.”

Shooting one more dark look at Aziraphale, Crawley knelt in front of the smallest boy, who tried to cringe back behind his teacher. The demon didn’t smile, but his face softened. “My name is Crawley. What’s yours?”

“This is Neti,” Aziraphale began. “I believe you, ah, met his eldest brother Ennugi outside –”

“I wasn’t talking to you, _Angel,”_ Crawley growled, turning the last word into an accusation. Then, in a much gentler voice, “Let’s try this again. I’m Crawley. What’s your name?”

“N-Neti,” the boy mumbled. “’m a ‘pprentice.”

“Well, Neti the apprentice, it’s good to meet you.” He leaned closer, trying to catch the boy’s eye. “Why did those other boys come after you?”

“Because –” Ekur started, but Aziraphale squeezed his hand and led him a few steps away.

Neti looked around, waiting for someone else to speak up. No one did, and Crawley reached out and touched his shoulder. “Why, Neti?” he asked, when the boy met his eyes.

“B-b’cuz I d…I don’t talk good,” Neti admitted. Crawley waited. “’nd…’nd they say I write like chicken scratchings ‘nd n-no one can read my words, not even me, ‘nd ‘m the worst student ‘nd I shouldn’ be a scribe, I should b…I should be a farmer like my da ’nd my b-brothers, but m-most of their da’s are farmers, too, ‘cept Kuwari. His da’s the m-majus-mager…big man in the village ‘nd he don’t get in trouble no matter what he do, so he d-does what he wants…” The boy trailed off with a huge sniff.

Crawley waited patiently for the end of this outpouring of words. Just as as the tears had filled the little boy’s eyes again, the demon asked, “Is he right?”

“What?” The question so surprised him, he forgot to cry.

“Is your writing so bad even you can’t read it?”

“N-No! I can read it fine!”

“And are you better than when you started?”

“Yes!”

Crawley tilted his head, and Neti tilted his the other way, studying each other. Watching them, Aziraphale felt something in his stomach unknot. After everything he’d seen in the last hour, this felt…right. “Why do you want to be a scribe? To get rich?”

“N-no. Scribes know everything ‘bout _everything._ My da says I ask too many questions, b-but I wanna know.”

Crawley placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Asking questions is good. You keep doing that. Never stop until you have every answer, understand?” Aziraphale thought he caught a note of urgency in Crawely’s voice, but Neti just smiled. “As for these bigger boys…”

“I kn…I know.” Neti looked down at his feet again, shuffling them across the stone floor. “Even tho’ they’re m-mean, ‘m s’posed to try ‘nd get along ‘nd be the better person.”

“No, that’s bullshit.”

“Crawley!” Aziraphale objected.

The demon pointed a finger at him, but kept talking to Neti as if he hadn’t heard it. “Bullies like that _want_ you to be nice because nice people don’t fight back. Nice people don’t make trouble. Nice people just sit and do what they’re told. So don’t be nice. You be the worst little shit you can be and make their lives _miserable._ Got it?”

“Even if they’re bigger’n me?”

 _“Especially_ if they’re bigger than you. Just be faster or cleverer until they have to shut up and pay attention to you. That’s how you fight back.”

A slow smile spread across Neti’s face, and suddenly he wrapped his arms around Crawley’s neck. “You have weird eyes but you’re _nice,”_ he said, then ran off toward the hearth and the porridge.

“Nice? No, I’m not you little _bastard,”_ Crawley growled, but there was something in his eyes Aziraphale had never seen before, something warm, soft around the edges.

Ekur tapped Aziraphale’s shoulder until he leaned down, then whispered in his ear. “Yes,” the angel answered, “that sounds like a lovely idea. But go get a little porridge before the other students get back. And don’t forget to keep an eye on Neti – ”

“I know. He’s little. He needs someone to take care of him,” Ekur recited as he ran off after his friend.

Trying to keep his expression stern, Aziraphale walked back to where Crawley was climbing to his feet. “Well, you’ve likely just turned a very well-mannered boy into a complete nightmare, but –”

“What the _Heaven_ iss going on here, Azzziraphale?” The fury was back in full force. It made his voice low, soft. Dangerous.

“I told you, it’s human discipline. Yes, I disagree with their methods, but it’s nothing to do with me. I’m just here to take care of the tablets.”

“Nothing to – those children are covered in bruises!”

“And I heal what little I can,” the angel tried to keep his tone calm. The rest would be back any minute and the last thing he needed was for them to see him arguing with an enraged demon. “If I healed them completely or took away all the pain, it would –”

“Would what? Ruin the effect? Keep him from learning his lesson? Ssspoil your fun?”

“Spoil my – Crawley, unlike you, I don’t enjoy harming humans!”

“Enjoy –”

“I saw you threatening Neti’s brother outside town. You looked ready to do far worse to him – and with that _smile.”_ Aziraphale shuddered. He didn’t want to believe it, not of Crawley. But he didn’t know what to think anymore. “You have no right to criticize me.”

“You think you’re better than a demon?” It wasn’t the first time Crawley had accused Aziraphale of thinking he was _better;_ but his habitual response, _of course I am, I’m an angel,_ died on his lips. This time there was something different in Crawley’s low tone, in his eyes. 

Aziraphale turned away, too many emotions battling in his head. “At least I’m trying to…”

His eyes fell on Neti, sitting with his back to them, oblivious as only children can be, laughing with Ekur. There wasn’t a mark on him.

“Crawley!” He spun back to face the glowering demon. “ _You_ healed him?”

“I shouldn’t have had to.”

“What am I supposed to tell the other scribes?”

“How about _not to hit fucking children?”_

“It isn’t my responsibility –”

“Yes. It. Is.” Crawley grabbed his shoulders angrily, then let go, glancing around the room. Instead he jabbed a finger into Aziraphale’s chest and continued in a quieter, but emphatic, voice. “Those boys came to you for protection. _You accepted that role._ And I don’t think this is the first time it’s happened. Don’t enter that kind of relationship if you’re not willing to take on the responsibility.”

Crawley started to turn away, then snapped back to jab him in the chest one more time. “You can’t just _think_ you’re better than a demon, Aziraphale. You have to _be_ better.”

With a snap of his fingers, the demon miracled the shattered mug back into one piece, placing it next to the jar of beer. Then he started gathering Aziraphale’s tablets, carefully stacking them in the center of the bench.

“Are you going to leave now?”

“I don’t know what else there is to say,” he muttered.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, adjusted his cloak, smoothed the wrap around his waist, and tried for a calming smile. It was wasted, of course; Crawley refused to face him. “Ekur asked if you will listen to his afternoon recitation. He gets very nervous and seems to think talking to you will help him prepare.” Crawley didn’t say anything. “Ekur is our resident astronomy expert, you know.”

Now Crawley turned, locking his narrowed gaze with Aziraphale’s so abruptly the angel took two steps back. “Why? Why would you want me to stay?”

_Because I’ve never seen you like this before. Because you’re dangerous right now. Because I need to keep an eye on you. Because I might need to stop you._

“Perhaps I just enjoy your company.” The smile flickered on his lips, but Aziraphale managed to hold that gaze.

Crawley smiled back. “I suppose I should stay then.” The smile didn’t reach his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading!
> 
> Historical notes:  
> \- Neti's story is based on certain accounts of life in the E-dubba, written on cuneiform tablets. While the stories were likely exaggerated for literary effect, they are not wholly unbelievable.  
> \- There is no such thing as "basic literacy" in cuneiform; due to the complex nature of the writing system, a scribe must be an expert in any field they wish to write or read about.
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta, kindathewholepoint.
> 
> Comments are appreciated!


	5. Precaution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale makes a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: violence; this is as graphic as this story will get; implied torture

_ Crawley and Haze stood before Malthus in the Armory. Two sets of wings, one the green-tipped brown of tarnished bronze, the other black as coal. Somewhere behind them, the Nameless continued her endless circuit, cleaning each weapon in turn. _

_ “You know I don’t like it when my pets fight,” the Earl told them, scratched voice almost regretful. His black eyes flicked from one to the other. Crawley stood at attention – or as close as he could manage – and focused his whole mind on holding his tongue. _

_ Haze was less successful. “That fetid serpent had no right to –” _

_ “Ah.” Haze fell silent. “I didn’t ask for excuses.” Malthus snapped his fingers. “Hammer.” _

_ After a moment, the Nameless shuffled over, placing a warhammer in Malthus’s hand, its head three pounds of ornate bronze. She stepped back and watched, blood clot eyes locked only on the weapon. _

_ Malthus hefted it for a moment, then brought it down in an arc into and through Haze’s shoulder. The golden-haired demon collapsed with a scream of pain, left hand clutching uselessly at the shattered collarbone. _

_ “Crawly, would you prefer I finish Haze’s punishment now, or later?” _

_ Neither of those options sounded appealing. “Later, Master.” _

_ “Take this,” Malthus snapped, handing the hammer back to the Nameless. “Clean it up before it stains.” Without acknowledging him, she turned and walked back to the wall of weapons, blood red feathers trailing across the floor. “And you,” Malthus glared at Haze, who was struggling to stand again. “Go outside and wait for me.” _

_ “Of course, Master. Thank you, Master.” Haze scrambled out the door, which fell shut with an ominous finality. _

_ Malthus shook his head and placed his hands on Crawley’s shoulders, stroking his throat with a thumb. “My pretty little pet. Yesterday it was Hastur and Ligur, and now Haze, too? And several others, judging by the state of you. Why must you always cause so much trouble?” _

_ “I’m sorry, Master,” he said, keeping his tone flat, staring at the wall across from him. “I will try to be more…accommodating in the future.” _

_ “It’s my own fault, you know. For spoiling you.” As they had the day before, the talons traced down his torso and across his ribs, Malthus circling towards his back. “So much time up on Earth, unsupervised. You’ve become quite wild, I’m afraid.” He ran his palm across the top of Crawley’s right wing, pressing against the break. Crawley couldn’t hold in a high-pitched noise. “Yes, it keeps you free from the rot. But if you’re going to be so antisocial, I don’t know if it’s worth the tradeoff.” The hand lifted, gently touching red curls. “Perhaps I should keep you down here more.” _

_ “If that is your wish, Master.” _

_ “You hardly sound pleased with the idea.” _

_ Crawley tried to find something like enthusiasm for his voice. “I’m –” _

_ Snatching at his hair, Malthus twisted Crawley’s neck, slamming his forehead into the stone table before he could react. For a moment he lost all strength in his legs, only staying upright with the help of Malthus’s arm around his waist. _

_ “You’re an ungrateful wretch is what you are, Crawly. And after all I’ve done for you over the years. I don’t have to take care of you, you know. I could send you out there, leave you to the mercy of the rest of Hell. Is that what you want?” _

_ “No, Master,” he said, getting his feet back under him. “You know I’m eternally in your debt, Master.” _

_ “Are you?” Malthus let go and stepped around to face Crawley, black eyes to yellow. _

_ He nodded, a little too quickly for the pain in his head. It was almost over now. A gift, a promise of loyalty, maybe a little more pain, and he would be back in Malthus’s good graces. _

_ Not that they were much better than his bad graces. The protection of a patron like Malthus was inconsistent at best. But it was the only thing that let Crawley survive in Hell. _

_ “Let me show you my appreciation.” Crawley reached for the pouch he had tied around his waist. He never brought anything into Hell he couldn’t afford to lose. Most demons didn’t care for material objects, though they would gladly take what others had. But Malthus had certain tastes. _

_ Crawley carefully poured out onto his palm six obsidian knives – black glass delicately flaked into blades as long and as narrow as his fingers, three of them with edges transparently thin. Almost impossibly sharp. _

_ “Those are quite lovely.” Malthus lifted one and tested the edge of it against Crawley’s shoulder. He almost didn’t feel the cut at all, just a sharp sting and the warm drip of blood. “I wonder how I should try them out.” He gave Crawley an expectant look. _

_ The only way to survive in Hell. _

_ Crawley sat on the table and held out his hand, smiling as charmingly as he could. “Oh, I have a few ideas.” _

\--

Two hours later, Aziraphale was almost ready to let himself relax.

Crawley sat on one of the corner benches, listening to Ekur explain in detail about the seven planets, giving a strange little indulgent smile anytime the child said something he and the angel knew to be wrong. Ekur really was a clever child; he memorized all the sign lists for astronomy in less than a week, and as a treat Aziraphale was letting him practice reading the text on stars from his own collection.

Neti sat on the floor in front of them, leaning against Crawley’s leg as he practiced his syllables. The younger boy had tried copying Crawley’s sprawl, but it turned out not to be suitable for supporting a tablet.

There was still a tension about the demon. He seemed to have buried it deeper, at least, and was no longer glowering at Aziraphale every few minutes. The black and red necklace was back in his hand, fingers idly turning the beads as he listened.

Once again, the tight knot in the angel’s stomach loosened a little. This was the Crawley he knew. But did that make it the real Crawley?

Seven more apprentices sat on various benches, preparing to be tested on their material. Each had a wet clay tablet with a passage carefully written by one of the scribes filling the left side; the students held the tablets on their laps and carefully copied each mark on the right hand side by pressing the side of their stylus into wet clay. The oldest were working with hymns and stories from local legends; the younger worked with more practical texts, deeds and legal contracts.

Kuwari, thirteen years old and rather full of himself, was talking quietly to Ilanum. The chief scribe handed the boy a fresh tablet, marked by Aziraphale’s personal seal. The apprentice shot a glance at Aziraphale, who nodded once.

Ilanum led the boy out of the E-dubba. They would be heading for the small stable, holding the village’s only horse. That’s why it had to be Kuwari; as the village magistrate’s son, he was by far the best – and fastest – rider. Getting the class bully out of the way for a few days wouldn’t hurt, either.

A few moments later, the hoofbeats of the horse echoed faintly across the hard mud. Ilanum returned and walked back to his students, barely giving the angel a glance.

_ Now _ he could relax. The message would be in Lagash before the evening meal. King Eannatum would see it tonight – Aziraphale’s seal ensured that – and enough soldiers to handle whatever Hell might be planning would arrive by morning.

It was only a precaution, of course. If Crawley kept his word – if he really wasn’t here to make trouble – he would never even know.

Aziraphale turned to find the demon staring straight at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. The next chapter will be posted on Wednesday.
> 
> Comments are appreciated - and I am so, so sorry.


	6. Messenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's choice leads to a confrontation, and the truth about Crawley's orders is revealed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Aftermath of torture; further non-graphic abuse. This chapter contains the final flashback to Hell.

_Crawley sat on the table in Malthus’s Armory, clutching his left hand, trying to will the flesh to knit back together. All up and down his arms, dark red blood beaded where the wounds hadn’t completely closed, dripping down to join the red patterns on the floor._

_After nearly a week in Hell, he barely had the strength to close a single small cut, never mind something as extensive as this. The pains just kept adding and adding and he was too tired to care anymore._

_He felt cold, down to his core, as if he was back in his snake form._

_Crawely didn’t trust himself to look meek and subservient just now, so he settled for sullen, keeping his eyes down so Malthus wouldn’t see the burning, barely-contained hate._

_The other demon could heal him. Wouldn’t though. That would defeat the purpose._

_“Well, now that’s taken care of,” Malthus handed the last blade to the Nameless. She had stood beside him the entire time, not watching either demon, only the new weapons, with unblinking eyes the color of clotted blood. Now she carefully wiped the glass blade clean, shuffling away to find a place to store it._

_“Are you pleased, Master?” He hated how easily the simpering voice came to him. A taloned finger rested under Crawley’s chin. He desperately tried to mask his eyes with any other emotion as his head was lifted to meet Malthus’s gaze._

_Whatever the Earl of Hell saw there, it seemed to amuse him. He smiled, almost enough to reach his eyes. “Perhaps.”_

_“Of course.” Swallowing, he stretched out his unbroken left wing. “Please. Continue.”_

_The offer itself was meaningless. If Malthus wanted to break his wing, or his leg, or his spine, he would, regardless of what Crawley said. But Malthus liked to talk as he worked, complaining about what was bothering him._

_Crawley had learned through the centuries that if he objected or fought, all he got for his trouble was an earful of how he was the worst, most pathetic demon in Hell. But if he played along…_

_Malthus traced his fingers back and forth, smoothing the black coverts. Crawley tried to ignore the tingle of pleasure that almost made him shiver, bracing himself for what came next._

_“Did you know,” the two fingers gently stroked a primary, putting the barbs back into order, then gripped it at the base of the rachis, “that idiot Hastur tried to take the Lagash job away from me?” Crawley’s wing erupted into pain as Malthus ripped the feather free. “Do you know how long I’ve been working on that blasted king?”_

_“Yes, Master. Twenty years.” This was more promising. His arms had bought him more information about the negotiations with Heaven than any demon of his rank should know, but this might actually be bloody_ useful. _Crawley had been trying to find out the details of this particular plan for over a decade._

_“Twenty years of pushing on his borders.” Malthus plucked another feather. “One more and we’ll have him where we want him, but suddenly that’s too complicated.”_

_“But you prevailed, didn’t you? Convinced the Council to let you continue?” That would explain Hastur’s foul mood earlier._

_Malthus ripped out two more of the long flight feathers. Crawley hardly even flinched; he was used to this pain. Used to seeing the floor of the Armory covered in his blood and his feathers._

_“The Council is…still considering his proposal. They’ll be locked in with the Archangels for the next three days,_ negotiating.” _This time he grabbed a fistful of feathers in one hand and shoved the wing away as hard as he could with the other. Crawley held his breath, clenching his fists against his knees, which of course only made the still-healing cuts feel worse._

_When the feathers tore free, Crawley was unable to hold in a tiny, broken sob. It sounded so weak. So pathetic._

_Malthus smoothed his remaining feathers indulgently. “Still, three days is more than enough time. If I play this right, by the time they emerge it will all be over. And it won’t matter what those cowards conceded; it will be out of their hands forever.”_

_That should have been ominous. Once, back when Crawley had thought he might one day be able to claw his way to promotion, to respect, to safety - once, he would have worried what such a comment might mean, whether he could use it to his advantage._

_But for centuries now, it had been all he could do to hold on to what little position he already had. With every missed opportunity, every slide down the ladder, he came closer to mindless oblivion. He could only think about avoiding that fate._

_This job really wasn’t his scene. But he couldn’t afford to be left out of it._

_“And…everything is prepared?”_

_“There’s certainly a great deal to be done. The armies are amassing, I’m scrambling to get everything in place, and I still need to have the message delivered.”_

_Message - that sounded perfect. Picking a fight with Haze had been a risky plan, but if it had finally brought him a way into this scheme..._

_“Oh, I could deliver a message,” Crawley suggested as casually as possible._

_“That’s sweet of you, my pet.” Malthus let go of the wing and ran his claws through Crawley’s hair. “But this is no job for a nameless demon.”_

_His eyes shot to the Nameless, carefully arranging a line of arrows on the wall. He also thought of the chaotic Nameless demons, the wild ones, with minds of nothing but violence and rage. Malthus liked to collect them and keep them in pens like Hell Hounds._

_Crawley didn’t know which of the two fates frightened him more._

_“I have a name.”_

_“Of course you do.” Indulgently, like Crawley was a child. “This one is far too dangerous for you, my pet. There’s an angel involved that we’ll need to get rid of. My sources say it might be one of the Guardians of Eden.”_

_Malthus couldn’t fail to notice the way Crawley tensed up, digging his fingers into his own thighs, heart frozen in his chest. “What. Did you say.”_

_In a flash, those talons dug into Crawley’s chin, forcing his golden eyes to meet Malthus’s black ones. “Don’t talk to me like that, Crawly.”_

_He swallowed, mind in a whirl. There were four Guardians of Eden. It might be one of the others. It’s probably not –_ don’t think it, don’t think it!

_“I’m sorry Master,” he groveled. “I just – have a grudge against one of the Guardians of Eden. We – encountered each other, after I tempted the humans.” Crawley struggled to hold that gaze as the claws shifted, moving toward his throat. “He – threatened me. Ah. Tried to force me to stay until other angels arrived. Reported my appearance to the Archangels, which made things very difficult for a time. It was the same angel at the Ark who –” He swallowed, one talon pressed against the large artery in his throat. “If. If this is the same angel, I want revenge.”_

_Malthus studied his face a moment longer, then smiled a slow, cruel smile. “What sort of revenge did you have in mind?”_

_Six centuries was a long time. Crawley had grown used to seeing black feathers covering the Armory floor. Whatever he needed to do to survive._

_And if sometimes there were other feathers here – feathers that glistened brightly in the guttering lamplight – well, he tried not to notice. It wasn’t his problem._

_Now he very much wished he’d paid more attention._

_“I’m…sure we could plan something between us. Two clever minds like ours.”_

_The smile grew. “Well then. Allow me to tell you the details.”_

_Crawley listened in horror, wondering what he had gotten himself into this time._

\--

Black and red beads clattered to the ground, scattering in every direction. Neti dropped his own work to scramble after them. Discarding the broken cords, Crawley turned to Ekur, who had been in the middle of explaining the (highly incorrect) difference between a planet and a star.

“I have to go now.” The demon kept his voice as level as he could. “Make sure you keep an eye on Neti.”

“I know,” Ekur said in the same sing-song tone he used when reciting memorized lessons. “He’s little. He needs someone to take care of him.”

“He really doesn’t,” Crawley corrected, standing up. “He’s strong. Just keep an eye on him until he realizes that.” Ekur nodded, confused.

Putting the children out of his mind, Crawley stormed up to Aziraphale. The angel had guilt written on every line of his face, twisting to avoid Crawley’s gaze, blue eyes darting anywhere else. Every face in the room was turned toward them.

Crawley wanted to grab Aziraphale by the sheepskin cloak, lift him straight up, shake him, scream at him _What have you done –_

But he had nothing to say.

Shaking his head, Crawley swept out.

If there were any poetry to the world, there would have been blue-white lightning, the smell of petrichor thick in the air, dark thunderheads a mile high. Instead, it was as sunny and warm a summer day as when he’d entered the E-dubba two and a half hours ago, barely a cloud to be seen.

The village was silent as Crawley passed through, apart from the echoes of distant voices in the barley fields. Just another day of labor for the common humans, same as the day before, same as the next.

Well, not this time. The next day would bring something they’d never seen before.

He’d just reached the ditch at the edge of the settlement – could feel the boundary, the marker between _here_ and _there_ pressing against him – when he heard the slap of sandals on dry mud behind him. _Of course_. Aziraphale could never just let anything go.

“Crawley, wait,” the familiar voice called. “There’s no reason to –”

“Don’t you dare,” the demon growled. He spun around to find Aziraphale frozen, just out of arm’s reach. “Don’t you dare try to _be civil_ after what you just did to me.”

“Come now, Crawley, I have no idea what –”

“Don’t lie to me!” He towered over Aziraphale, not slouching now, puffing himself up to his full height, wings stretching out behind him. _Don’t do that_ , a voice in the back of his mind warned as the angel stepped back, face almost as pale as his hair. _Stop terrorizing him._

But he just couldn’t bring himself to care. “You gave that kid a tablet and sent him away on horseback. I might not be able to _read_ human languages, but I know what a bloody _messenger_ looks like.”

“It – it isn’t what you think.” Aziraphale probably thought his gesture was calming, but it looked defensive. “I just contacted –”

“The king in Lagash. I know. How many troops did you ask him to send? How many humans do you need to contain one rampaging demon?”

“I’m sorry, Crawley, but you aren’t acting like yourself.”

_“How would you know?_ We’ve had, what, a dozen conversations in sixteen hundred years?” He grabbed Aziraphale’s trembling shoulders, trying to get the angel to look him in the eye. “This is who I really am. This is what it means to be a demon. To be Fallen.”

Beneath his hands, he felt the angel go deathly still.

Aziraphale raised his hands sharply, knocking his forearms hard against the inside of Crawley’s wrists, breaking his grip. He looked up, locking gazes, and behind the unshed tears there was an ice that Crawley had never seen before.

“Get out,” he commanded softly, wings of soft white mist gathering behind him. “Whatever you have planned for these people, call it off. By morning, King Eannatum will be here with at least two hundred soldiers. And in spite of everything, _Crawley,_ I would rather not see you discorporated so…messily.”

“You _idiot.”_ Crawley turned away, raking his fingers through his oiled curls. The chain of carnelians came free and he flung it with all his might at the nearest hovel, precious stones bouncing in every direction. “You complete _fool._ Do you think Hell cares about this _worthless shit-hole village?”_

“Then what are you doing _here?”_

“I told you! Reconnaissance! There’s three other demons looking at places to have this bloody battle!”

“Battle?” Uncertainty flashed back through Aziraphale’s eyes. “ _Four_ demons?”

“And two more back with the _army_ of humans led by the Lord of Umma. Just waiting to be told where to attack.”

“Army…” Now Aziraphale puffed himself up, clenching his fists with a new determination. The wings behind him condensed, flashing a little in the afternoon light. “I knew something was wrong the moment I saw you. As soon as we entered the E-dubba I had Ilatum begin composing the message.”

“You _what?”_ Anger was good. It made the pain easier to deal with.

“I didn’t want to waste a moment. How could you? How could you sit there, drink my beer, talk to me like a…like that, knowing you were going to betray me in a few hours?”

“How could _you,_ Angel, knowing you _already had?”_

“The village is defended now. Have your battle elsewhere.”

Crawley laughed, a cold, high chuckle, shaking his head. “You still don’t understand, do you? Your King Eannatum is the bloody _target_ . My…my side has been working on him for _twenty years,_ since he was a _child,_ to become the biggest warlord this mudplain has ever seen. All he needs is one more attack on his borders to push him over the edge.”

“And you brought your battle here.”

“No, Aziraphale, _you brought it here."_ He didn’t grab the angel again, but he stood so close, so close their noses almost touched, so close he could smell the scent of Heaven – soft, pure raindrops – masked by the smells of clay, incense and honey. “I was going to wait until one of the other demons reported back. I was going to get drunk and ‘forget to check in.’ I had a hundred plans to make sure that fight was elsewhere and _all you had to do was trust me.”_ He shoved Aziraphale, hard enough to make the angel stumble back.

“How am I supposed to trust you if you don’t _tell me anything?”_ Aziraphale shoved back, harder than Crawley would have believed possible.

“Why would I tell anything to someone who can’t keep his _mouth shut?”_ Crawley shoved again, not moving his eyes from the bright blue ones before him. “If I’d told you the truth, you would have just reported on me faster.”

“You…you don’t know that.”

“Yes, Angel, I do. Because now you do know the truth and all you have to do to stop this is call back that messenger.” He pressed his finger to Aziraphale’s chest. “But you won’t, will you?”

The angel clenched his jaw. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? This could be a trick.”

“You don’t know. That’s how trust works. Call him back.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, and for a moment Crawley thought he would relent.

Then they opened, full of all the judgement and disdain of an angel for one of the Fallen. “Leave. Begone from my sight, Demon.”

“You are a stone-cold bastard, Aziraphale.” He pulled off his last piece of adornment – the silver armband – and dropped it into the soft mud at the bottom of the ditch as he turned away. “But you know, I’d still rather not see you discorporated _in spite of everything.”_ He stepped onto the reed platform. “Take the kids and get out of here while there’s still time.”

“What?” asked Aziraphale, with such genuine confusion that Crawley turned and looked back. “What…kids?”

“Don’t play dumb, Aziraphale, I’m not in the mood. You know I don’t want to see children too young to even hold a weapon cut down.”

“How do you…”

“There’s got to be a donkey or something in this town, right? Take it, pick up the two boys at the school, grab your precious tablets while you’re at it, and get lost.”

Aziraphale shook his head, with a wide-eyed look that parted the anger in Crawley’s chest to make room for dread. “There are two donkeys but…Neti and Ekur aren’t the only children in Gu’Edena.”

“But…your students…”

“Are only the sons of the wealthiest families. This is a farming village, Crawley. There are over a hundred children working in the fields right now.”

Slowly, Crawley turned to look across the waving green barley. It was past chest-height on him, but now that he knew what to look for, he could see the ripples where small bodies moved through, hear the high laughter of boys and girls young enough to turn work into a game. Here and there, women with the hunched posture that comes from having an infant strapped to their back.

When he turned again, he didn’t think even Aziraphale could miss the horror on his face. “Call back the messenger.”

“Call off the battle.”

“This isn’t a fucking game, Aziraphale.” He stepped off the platform. “Call. Him. Back.”

“I won’t leave this village undefended with half a dozen demons in the area. Call it off.”

“I don’t have that kind of pull!”

“You said you had a hundred ideas. Try one of them.”

“They all require the king to be anywhere but _right fucking here._ Call him back!”

“No, Crawley.” Aziraphale crossed his arms. “You are a demon and I can not trust you. I will protect these people in the way that seems best to me. Now leave this place.”

“But –”

“LEAVE!”

All the anger, fear, pain and rejection solidified into a ball of ice. “Fine. I’ll see you on the battlefield.”

He turned and walked away, trying not to feel anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'm so sorry.
> 
> This scene, this argument, is in many ways what the story is all about - the day they didn't trust each other, the day "opposite sides" really meant something. Both of them are feeling betrayed, and neither is being his best self.
> 
> (Try not to be too mad at Aziraphale for choosing this moment to be stubborn. Try not to be too mad at Crowley for giving in to his anger. I promise there will be a reconciliation.)
> 
> Thank you for reading; thank you to my beta, kindathewholepoint, who would probably prefer that I stuck to fluff but never complains. Comments are appreciated, and you can find me on Tumblr ([Aethelflaed, Lady of Mercia](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/)) where I answer asks and private messages.


	7. Change of Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following their argument, Crawley and Aziraphale go their separate ways. The angel hopes to stop the coming disaster, but the demon quickly discovers a new complication...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: non-graphic violence (very mild compared to previous chapters); threats of violence.

Aziraphale hurried back through the village, trying to ignore the sickening twist in his heart.

He was right to send Crawley away. The demon had proven he couldn’t be trusted. Aziraphale had given him more than enough opportunities to tell the truth, and he’d just sat there and  _ lied. _

Hadn’t he?

The angel shook his head, twisting the silver band at his wrist. No time to think about that now. He shoved his emotions away, trying to be logical.

Most importantly, he  _ must _ make sure the battle did not come to this village.

That should be easy enough to fix. Much as he hated to admit it at the moment, Crawley did have a point.

In the open space between the temple and the E-dubba, he found the village’s two donkeys, already hitched to the cart, which the two scribes were loading with jars and sacks.

Aziraphale walked in what he hoped was a dignified manner. “Excellent. I’ll need to borrow one of these donkeys. Or better yet, send one of the apprentices. Who is the fastest rider?” Ilatum nodded to Watrum, the younger scribe continuing to load the cart while Ilatum walked toward the front. “No, this isn’t something I can entrust to them. I’ll have to go myself.”

He grimaced at the idea of riding one of the tediously uncomfortable mounts, but he needed to make sure the new message was clear.

“Leaving already?” Ilatum asked, checking the harness on the donkeys but making no move to unhitch them.

“Yes – no.” Aziraphale caught his hands wringing in front of him and forced them still. “I need to catch up to Kuwari. I made a…miscalculation. Crawley isn’t working alone. He brought an army with him.”

“Is that a fact?” Ilatum still wouldn’t turn to face him.

“It’s just a small change of plans. We need the king to bring his army a mile or two up the canal, to draw them out. Then they can fight all they want and nobody in the village will be in danger.”

“Unless the king loses.”

“Yes, well, I can’t think of  _ everything.” _ He would have to, though. Aziraphale wasn’t good at this sort of strategy, at trying to picture all possible outcomes. Even attempting to do so made him feel sick, in ways an angelic body was never  _ meant  _ to feel sick. “Are you going to give me a donkey or not?”

“Not.”

“I  _ beg your pardon?” _ But his cold tone had no effect on the scribe. Aziraphale turned his glare on Watrum and finally noticed what they were loading into the cart – the beer, the food, their personal possessions. “You’re…you’re leaving?”

Ilatum shrugged, picking up the reigns and settling onto the lip of the cart. “This isn’t our home. Thanks to our work here, we can return to Nippur and live comfortably for many years. Leaving was always the plan.”

“But –  _ now?” _

“As soon as we knew what was in your message, Watrum went to Nanum and traded everything we couldn’t carry for the cart and donkeys. If we leave now, travel through the night, we may be able to make it to Adab sometime tomorrow.”

“At least go to Lagash – you can talk to the king, I’ll give you my seal –”

“We’re foreigners in this land. No one will listen to us. And we want to be as far from the fighting as possible. That means north – as far as we can get.”

“You can’t do this! You’re leaving these people undefended!”

“This isn’t our fight, Aziraphale.” Watrum sat in the back of the cart. He looked at the angel earnestly. “We aren’t warriors. We’re scholars, like you. We won’t do any good dying here, and I have a family back home.”

Aziaphale shook his head, standing in front of the donkeys. “No one has to die. If I can just –”

“Kuwari’s halfway to Lagash by now,” Ilatum said. “you won’t catch up on one of these.”

“I could –” What? Miracle it faster? Getting an elderly donkey to outpace a galloping horse was beyond his skill. He couldn’t change the words on the tablet, or make the horse throw a shoe, or  _ anything _ when Kuwari was miles away.

He couldn't think of a thing to do.

Heart in his throat, Aziraphale took a step back, and the donkeys immediately plodded past him. He watched the cart rattle out of the village, and almost miracled it a broken axle.

But what good would that do? It was too late to change his message, and this really wasn’t their fight.

It wasn’t his fight either.

His duty was clear: gather the tablets, leave, ensure the knowledge could continue to spread.

Still. The king wouldn’t arrive until the morning. He had time.

Even if he couldn’t think of everything, he could surely think of  _ something. _

\--

Beyond the fields, across the canal, most of the way back to the hidden army camp, Crawley rolled on his wave of anger. Anger was good. It focused the mind.

He didn’t need to worry about plans or kingdoms or any of that – nothing to do with him.

Just get back to his tent, dress as a warrior again, and go shout at some low-ranked soldiers until they could form a decent pike line. Everything else was someone else’s problem. He didn’t even know why he’d ever bothered –

“Well, Crawly my pet, back at last.”

Turns out there was another voice that could derail his anger, but for a very different reason.

“Master,” he turned with his most obedient smile and bow. “I didn’t know you would be coming today.”

Malthus on earth was not much different from Malthus in Hell – his fingernails were less talon-like, but still sharp; his hair mostly dark grey, but still with hints of iridescent purple; the lesions on his skin less obvious, his voice still cracked and rough. “After preparing for twenty years, I’m hardly going to watch from Hell as my plan comes to fruition.” 

Malthus glanced disdainfully at the land around them – cracked, dry mud flats to one side, thick reeds along the bank of the Tigris to the other. “So. This is Earth. I can’t see why you spend so much time here.”

“Some parts are better than others,” Crawley started.

That was as far as he got. Malthus grabbed a fistful of oiled red curls and jerked downwards. The surprise, as much as the pain, brought Crawley to his knees in the mud.

Malthus pulled again, hauling Crawley’s head back, exposing his throat. “I told you this hairstyle is inappropriate, my pet. And why are you not dressed for battle?”

“Reconnaissance,” Crawley managed, teeth bared, eyes clenched shut. “If I... came with armor and weapons... they’d know what to expect.”

“And this is how you blend in?”

_ Why do you both ask the same question? _

He tried to think through the pain in his scalp. “I’m not going to  _ blend in _ in this land however I dress,” he gasped. “This way, whatever they expect of me, it’s not two hundred soldiers and a half-dozen demons.”

Malthus released him and Crawley relaxed slightly, sitting back on his heels, trying to keep his spine unbowed. The Earl of Hell glanced upriver, where the smoke from the army’s campfires hung in the clear air. “Twenty demons, actually. This battle promises so many opportunities for chaos and, well, why shouldn’t  _ all _ my pets share in the fun?”

“Of course.” Crawley’s mind raced, working out the possibilities. Who would he bring? Chaotic Nameless. Bottom-ranked demons to lead them.

He was still trying to calculate what the additional demons would mean, still trying to work out why Malthus would deliberately add so much chaos to his carefully laid plan, when he realized the Earl was glaring at his arms, at the complex henna weaving from shoulder to fingernail.

Crawley had forgotten what he was supposed to be hiding. 

“Where are your scars?”

“Oh. They. Ah, you know. Wounds heal faster on Earth, so –”

In a flash, one hand grabbed his wrist, the other his throat, nails digging into soft flesh. “There’s not a single scratch left. Don’t  _ lie _ to me or I’ll rip out your throat and see how long  _ that _ takes to heal.”

“I – the angel –” It was too many turns. His mind couldn’t keep up, couldn’t focus, couldn’t reach a solution before being dragged in a new direction, and now Malthus was going to kill him, worse, Malthus was going to  _ find out – _ “I asked to be healed!” he shouted desperately. “I – I knew if I faced a Principality injured, I’d be destroyed. Traded favors. Another demon healed me before I left Hell.”

Crawley hated lying. The truth could be stretched, manipulated; it was always shifting, changing in new lights. Lies had to  _ maintained _ . 

There was no rule against demons having several patrons – most had at least three, and the politics of that could get complicated – but Malthus was a jealous master. He didn't like to share. If he asked who Crawley’s benefactor was, this could fall apart very quickly.

Fortunately – Unfortunately – Malthus went in a different direction. “Ah.” The Earl released Crawley, patting him on the cheek. “So there was an angel in the village after all?”

“Y – yes.” No point in denying it. Every demon would be able to sense it as soon as they crossed the boundary; Malthus a good deal sooner.

“And you escaped unscathed. Well done, my pet.” That seemed to be his signal to rise. Crawley climbed slowly to his feet, watching for another sudden mood shift. “Pity you didn’t bring it back with you. We could use a little entertainment before the attack. Did you manage to kill it at least?”

_ Reports of angels going missing. _

_ Slaughter every one of those bastards for what they did to us. _

_ Too-bright feathers on the floor of the Armory, glinting at the corner of his eye –  _

_ Don’t think about that Crawley, it’s none of your concern. _

“No, Master, both of those would be beyond me. I had a better idea.” He let a hint of pride slip into his tone, hoping it would cover what he really felt. “The angel was posing as an agent of the king, so I tricked him into sending the message to Eannatum himself. The army that arrives in the morning should be more than large enough for your needs, and the angel will take the blame for this from his superiors.”

“Oh, my pet, I am  _ most _ impressed. Your mind is almost too clever and twisted for your own good.” Malthus’s smile was nearly as bad as his anger had been. “I think a reward is in order.”

“You’re too kind.” Only centuries of practice held his smile in place.

“Yes. I think you should lead the charge when we attack tonight.”

“I really don’t – you shouldn’t – tonight?”

“Don’t be so modest. We’ll march out as soon as we have the troops ready. No more than an hour or two.”

“No! You can’t –”  _ Fine, Angel, if that’s what it takes, I won’t cause any trouble today. _ “The king won’t arrive until tomorrow morning.”

“It won’t matter if he arrives to find a village under attack or one destroyed and occupied, the effect should be the same. And we can’t risk the angel calling in  _ Heavenly _ reinforcements once it realizes what’s going on. The fight could get completely out of control.” Though from Malthus’s tone, that possibility would please him as much as anything

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. He’s far more likely to abandon the village and run.”  _ For once in your stupid life do the smart thing. _

“All the more reason to get there as soon as possible.”

\--

“You cannot be serious,” Aziraphale said with dawning horror. “You mean to ask these people to fight?”

“This is our home, and we stand ready to defend it,” replied Nanum, Magistrate of Gu’Edena. “I would expect nothing less from loyal subjects of the king.”

“But…” Aziraphale turned again to look at the makeshift army. Men carrying sickles, axes, whatever tools they could find. A handful of women with thunderous faces, daring anyone to try and send them home. And the children… “Some of these boys are barely twelve years old.”

Nanum crossed his arms with a snarl. “They’re old enough to carry a weapon, aren’t they? What else would you have us do? Run?”

“Yes!” He waved his arms frantically. “You have hours before the attack! Leave this place! You can replant your fields, you can rebuild your homes, just go!”

“We will not allow the oathbreakers from Umma to destroy what we have built here, to spit in the face of the treaty laid down by our grandfathers. If they come, we will be ready for them.” He gestured to the milling crowd, some wearing cloaks or helmets of boiled leather. “If your information is right, they won’t outnumber us by much.”

The angel rubbed his hands across his face. He’d assumed once Nanum knew what to expect, he would have organized an evacuation. Didn’t humans value their lives, their safety above everything else?

Aziraphale took a deep breath and settled into his most reasonable tone. “They’ll be soldiers, Nanum. With real weapons and real armor and –”  _ And demons fighting beside them. _ He pointed to the pile of weapons that made up the official town armory: five bows, mainly for hunting; three swords; a handful of stone-tipped spears. “You have to know you’ll be no match for them. You can’t  _ win  _ this fight, you have to leave, now!” He didn’t sound reasonable. He sounded as if he were pleading.

With a sigh, Nanum clasped him on the shoulder. “Master scribe,” he said, pulling Aziraphale a little farther from the crowd, “I understand what is troubling you. Though you have made your home among us these past weeks, your first loyalty is to your goddess.”

“I –” Aziraphale felt a moment of panic, trying to work out what Nanum knew.

“It was the same with the other scribes, and the priests of Nisaba. To stand with us against her home city must feel like blasphemy. Perhaps it is. But we have worshipped her, sacrificed to her, sung her praises, and loved her for generations. I do not think she wants us destroyed, nor that she would turn you away for helping to defend her people.”

“That’s not exactly…” Aziraphale straightened his cloak, trying not to think how close to the mark Nanum was. “There’s more to this than you know.”

“Of course. The priests said much the same before they departed. Perhaps it’s best if I leave religious matters to the experts.”

“It isn’t that.” Aziraphale twisted the metal at his wrist, smoothed his hands against his kilt. “I don’t...I honestly don’t believe my Deity wants anyone here destroyed. I would help you if I could, I swear. But…” he looked again at the gathered people. All the miracled up weapons and armor he could muster wouldn’t turn farmers into warriors. And there was only one thing that could stand against a pack of demons. “...but I have my orders. I can’t stay.”

The magistrate pulled him a little further from the crowd. “I know it was you who sent Kuwari with the message to the king. Whatever happens tomorrow, he will be safe in the city. Thank you. If you choose to leave, I will still help you as much as I can. Here –” Nanum held out one of the three swords.

Aziraphale immediately recoiled from it. Its bent, almost hooked shape was more like a sickle than a sword, but the deep brown of the copper was too much like the orichalcum blades of Heaven for his taste. “No! I – I can’t. I mean, I couldn’t, I mean…”

“Of course. You’re a scholar, not a warrior.” He put aside the sword and picked up a spear, pressing it into Aziraphale’s unresisting hands. “Take this. Even if you plan to flee like the others. Take it with my thanks.”

Aziraphale stared – six feet of wood, topped by a chipped grey flint point, tied in place with animal sinew.

He should turn it down. He didn’t need a weapon. He needed…

He didn’t know what he needed.

The angel nodded wordlessly, then turned and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History notes:  
> *Donkeys: by far the preferred and most common equine animal in Sumer; a village this small having even one horse would be a great surprise. Some scholars argue that the people of Sumer used onagers (a local relative of the donkey), but there is no clear evidence that these were ever domesticated.  
> *Magistrate: I couldn't find what the correct title for the head man in a village of this size would be, but it would not be a very formal position. First among relative equals, he would likely either be a man with connections to the local king/warlord, or a particularly wealthy farmer.  
> *Bronze vs stone: by this point in history, Sumer was in the Bronze Age, but bronze (and even copper) tools were too difficult to make - and thus expensive - for anyone short of nobility.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and as always thanks to my beta, kindathewholepoint.
> 
> Next chapter will be posted on Wednesday (barring any emergencies). Comments are appreciated!


	8. Change of Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has one final hope to stop what is coming - but is anyone listening?

By the time Aziraphale reached the E-dubba, he had made up his mind. Perhaps there was nothing he could do to help – but that didn’t mean  _ no one  _ could help.

He ran past the tablet house and up the ramp of the temple’s sacred mound. It was such a low mound he could easily have climbed the side, but considering what he was about to attempt, it wouldn’t hurt to be respectful.

Across the flat expanse of earth packed solid by generations of feet stood a mudbrick rectangle, barely a hundred feet square, plastered walls painted with patterns suggesting columns. The temple was far from impressive, but as Crawley had said, the belief was genuine – and that had implications for angels as well as demons.

The path brought him first to a large, ornate wooden door carved through with patterns. Aziraphale walked past it; a false door, not even on a hinge, intended as entrance for the goddess. He followed the smooth road, worn down by the feet of worshippers and the care of mortal priests – around the corner, halfway down the long building – to another, simpler entryway covered by a heavy cloth. Still clutching the spear, he leaned through.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” Silence. Nanum had implied the priests, like the scribes, had already fled. Perhaps they’d gone at the first word of Crawley’s arrival; Aziraphale had been a fool to think a demon could walk through the village without comment. He’d been a fool about many things today.

The heart of the temple was a long room, running from the false door on the southeast wall to the raised dais on the northwest. Light filtered through the carvings in the false door, but not as brightly as in the mornings, leaving the temple dim and forbidding. The oil lamps had been extinguished, except for one, still glowing dully near the middle of the room.

To his right stood a small altar, little more than a raised platform, still smoldering with the remains of the day’s offering. Beyond it, the raised dais for the goddess Nisaba herself. No cult statue in a village this poor; the simple platform held carved stone tablets and little clay votives, prayers from the people for good harvest, safe child birth, easy winter. Her image was painted on the wall – four long curled locks of hair, crowned with a headdress of wheat topped by cow horns and a crescent moon. She held a stylus and a tablet covered with stars; they, like the stylus, reflected the light – just a thin layer of gold, all that the village could afford.

Looking at the image, Aziraphale felt a strange pang of longing. His own Deity was so…distant. He had not heard Her Voice in sixteen hundred years, and even then, he’d lied to Her. He could almost have believed the silence was a punishment, except that She apparently no longer spoke to anyone except the Archangels.

That was fine. It was  _ logical. _ There was far too much to be considered, with a world to run, an Ineffable Plan to oversee. She certainly couldn’t concern Herself with the comings and goings of every Third Sphere angel feeling out of his depth, could She?

Still, he couldn’t help feeling a little jealous of the villagers, who found assurance, comfort, validation in the birthing of calves every spring, the harvest of grain every fall. Simple signs of favor, but the faith it inspired hummed across his skin with the pleasant warmth of the springtime sun.

With a sigh, Aziraphale removed the pin of Nisaba he had worn for the past several years, since he had been given his first set of tablets to protect, and placed it on the raised dais in front of the cult image. The click of silver on plaster seemed to fill the empty temple.

“I know I never actually served you, but thank you. I enjoyed who I was, during our time together. Thank you for letting me be…” His voice caught in his throat. “Thank you,” he whispered and hurried away, pulling off his sheepskin cloak.

Back at the altar, he jabbed the stone tip of the spear into the plaster floor and began carving symbols as fast as he could. There were many ways of contacting Head Office, but this was the one, when combined with the background levels of belief in the temple, most likely to get a timely response.

When the rough ring of sigils was complete, he tossed aside the spear. 

“This is the Principality Aziraphale,” he murmured over folded hands as a soft glow filled the room. “I would like to speak with…anyone, really, about my current orders.” 

Then he knelt upon the folded cloak and waited. There was always a wait. 

\--

Malthus’s fingers ran through Crawley’s hair, lifting it, then brought in the knife, sliding it close to his scalp. The curls fell free, some sticking to his robe, little strands of red on black.

“There, now.” The cracked, rough voice in his ear. “Doesn’t this feel better already? Hair this long just becomes unkempt so easily.”

“Yes, Master.” Crawley swallowed, trying to stare directly ahead at the side of the hide tent. “And is…is everything ready for tonight? Surely having the battle so early…”

“Not my choice.” Another pull, another flick of the blade. “The Council is in final negotiations  _ right now. _ Apparently, those feathered bastards on high are insisting that we stop being so… _ upfront _ as we direct human affairs. Less  _ overtly  _ violent.” A sharper pull this time, jerking Crawley’s head back. “We’re demons. Violence is  _ what we are.” _

Once, Crawley might have disagreed. Today, it didn’t seem worth arguing. “Yes, Master.”

“No more starting conflicts. No more direct assaults. They think if they stop us – stop  _ me  _ – the humans will just live in peace and harmony. But you and I know them better than that, don’t we my pet?” The knife slid across Crawley’s scalp one last time.

“Yes, Master.”

“After tonight, the Council will think twice about making concessions so easily. After they see what my methods produce.”

“The greatest warlord the kingdoms have yet seen.”

“Oh, I think we can aim a little higher than that.” Malthus’s fingers brushed the last hairs off his shoulders. “Time for you to get changed.”

As he stood up, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished copper plates of the warrior’s cloak laid out beside him. Golden eyes flat and dull, narrow face expressionless. Red hair shorn down to the barest suggestion of color.

A hand on his shoulder again. “Do you like it, my pet?”

“Yes, Master,” said Crawly.

\--

It was only a little more than an hour, far better than he could have hoped, before the glow of light shifted, and an unfamiliar angel appeared, looking distracted and a little harried. “Yes? What is it? Is this important?”

“Er…Yes, I rather believe it is,” Aziraphale snapped to attention, or at least tried to, tripping over his cloak in his eagerness to stand up. “To…to whom am I speaking?”

“Hizkiel, Chief Assistant of the Archangels.” The angel stood in the light, slightly transparent – still in Heaven, merely projecting into the temple itself.

“Oh, oh that’s good.” Aziraphale attempted to adjust his cloak, only to remember he wasn’t wearing it. His bare chest felt rather exposed. “You see, I came, well, I was sent to this village…there were these tablets but…ah, well there’s rather a lot to explain, actually. Is Gabriel there?”

“The Archangels, and most especially Gabriel,” the other angel informed him coldly, “are in conference at the moment. And you wish to interrupt them. Is what you have to say  _ critical _ ?”

Aziraphale’s jaw worked for a moment. “I…well, it is rather  _ urgent _ I should think,  _ potentially _ critical.”

With a noise of mild impatience, Hizkiel picked up an impossibly thin tablet from somewhere beyond the light. “More so than matters concerning the balance of all Creation?”

“N…no, when you put it as such…I suppose it isn’t.” Aziraphale felt his heart sinking.

Hizkiel scanned the tablet with a glance. “Aziraphale. Principality. Currently assigned to Earth. Your orders are to protect several documents and ensure the spread of their information. Was this in any way unclear?”

“No, that isn’t the problem, but there’s…” He took a breath and rushed on before his doubts could grow any larger. “I have received intelligence that tomorrow morning a foreign army will attack this village. It’s possible, even likely, that the fighting will spill throughout the settlement.”

“I understand your concern.” Aziraphale started to relax. “If you believe the safety of the tablets is at risk, proceed to the next settlement.”

“But…” His hands again fluttered to smooth the cloak he no longer wore. He tried to clasp them firmly in front of him, but he couldn’t hold still – wringing his fingers, hooking them around the metal at his wrist. “The people of this village are not soldiers. The king has been summoned, but if the other army arrives first…”

“That isn’t your concern.” Hizkiel’s eyes ran down the tablet again. “You are a scholar, not a warrior. Your duty – oh.” The eyes – a misty gold that glowed in the dim temple – flicked up to Aziraphale with a new respect, but a respect that made him want to sink through the floor. “You  _ are  _ a warrior. Well, I suppose that explains the confusion, Platoon Leader.” The title felt like a blow to the gut. “Since your current assignment isn’t a military one, you should avoid any interference with human conflicts. You are authorized to use violence only if the objects under your care are directly threatened, but it would be better to leave immediately to avoid that possibility.”

He’d thought he was so  _ clever,  _ arranging for this. A chance to work with records, to pretend he wasn’t a warrior just for a short while. To escape the conflicts of the world, yet here he was trying to get involved again. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “My title on Earth is Guardian, actually, which is rather the point. I thought  _ guarding  _ the lives of humans must be at least as important as guarding their knowledge, and well, I think the current situation deserves a closer look by, by someone.”

Hizkiel looked over the tablet again, first in confusion, then growing suspicion. “Are you not currently stationed at Gu’Edena?”

“Yes, but I don’t see what that –”

“It is a farming village, one of a hundred  _ identical _ farming villages in this region of the world. Whereas the tablets you are assigned to protect are  _ unique _ , including an astronomy text with no verified copies and the only known bilingual document from the Indus River valley. What could possibly be so important you would risk that knowledge?”

Aziraphale swallowed. There was only one option left, but even knowing what Crawley had done… No, the lives of the people here were more important than his misplaced guilt. “I believe the attacking army is under some sort of demonic influence.”

The face of Hizkiel loomed larger as the angel leaned closer, as if inspecting Aziraphale’s face. “What sort of demonic influence?”

“I…I’m not sure…But I have reason to suspect six, perhaps more, will be present.”

“Listen very carefully.” A finger jabbed out of the light – Hizkiel couldn’t physically manifest through these sigils, but it was still enough to make Aziraphale back up. “Right now the Archangels are in conference deciding the future of our ongoing crusade against the forces of Evil. They do not have time to worry about every border dispute between these glorified shepherds. If you are lying about  _ demonic involvement _ to try and get approval for some pet project…”

“No! No, I wouldn’t – look at my record, please.” He forced his voice to be as even as possible, swallowing down the awful sense rising in his chest. “I saw and identified the Serpent of Eden. He…he goes by the name Crawley. You’ll see where I’ve encountered him before. Eden. The Ark.”

“Hm.” Hizkiel scanned the tablet again. “That seems like an awfully large number of encounters with a single demon. Can anyone else confirm these sightings?”

Aziraphale’s mouth hung open in shock. “I…Are you accusing me of  _ fabricating _ …No, of course. Michael has seen him before, and Uriel.” At a distance, but two Archangels should more than suffice.

Hizkiel considered him for a long moment, then finally nodded. “I shall ask them when the conference ends. If they can confirm, we will send a team to deal with any demons in the area. In the meantime, take your tablets, leave, do not engage unless a demon seeks you out.”

He very nearly collapsed onto the floor with relief. “Thank – oh,  _ thank you. _ That’s, yes, that will be exactly –  _ thank you.” _ Hizkiel began to turn away, but Aziraphale had one more question. “When…how soon do you think that will be?”

“The conference should end in two days.”

“Two  _ days? _ But – but that will be too late!”

Hizkiel blinked in genuine confusion. “If the demons have already returned to Hell, then the matter will have settled itself. If not, they will be found.”

“But the villagers…surely you can send  _ someone _ . They’ll be able to see the demons for themselves.”

“I cannot order a team down without confirmation of your previous encounters. If you wish to appeal this, you can discuss it with the Archangels when they return from the conference.”

Aziraphale blinked as his mind grappled with this. “So…you can only send assistance if the Archangels corroborate my story…and I can only appeal the process by going directly to the Archangels?”

“That is correct,” said Hizkiel without irony.

Aziraphale twisted his hands miserably. The smallest bit of initiative or creative thought and this might have worked, but Heaven had to have their  _ procedures. _

“Listen,” Hizkiel said in a voice that was…not quite kind, but a close approximation. “I also fought in the War. I understand how difficult it can be to transition to new duties. Trust in your orders. The knowledge in those documents is important. That must be your priority, not any thoughts of fighting or revenge. The time for that will come.”

“Yes. I understand.”

“Good.” Hizkiel handed the thin tablet to someone Aziraphale couldn’t see. “Proceed to the next settlement on your route. Someone will contact you there in five days.” Aziraphale barely had time to nod before the light vanished and he was alone in the temple again.

Picking up his sheepskin cloak, Aziraphale tried to settle it over his shoulders, but it just slipped off to fall in a pile on the ground. He walked on unsteady feet back to the raised dais and the cult image of Nisaba, where he’d left the pin. Plucking it up, he murmured, “I suppose we’ll be working together a bit longer.”

Aziraphale turned away.

He spun back. “I did everything I could. Far more than was ever asked of me. I can’t  _ help _ your people.” He looked up into the cult image’s sightless, unresponsive eyes. “I – yes, I’m a Guardian, but I don’t get to decide who or what I guard. I was never meant to stay here, never meant to get attached to them.”

With a sudden fury, he flung the pin at the wall. “Why should I explain myself to you?  _ You’re not even real!  _ You’re just a – a story they made up because they’re  _ ignorant _ and  _ alone _ and…and scared of the chaos loose in this world, and they cling to anything that gives them a sense of stability and security and I just…” Aziraphale placed his hands on the dais, among the carefully carved tablets created by the oldest students at the E-dubba, an offering of their knowledge to the goddess. “I don’t know what else to  _ try. _ I’m sorry. I – I have my orders. I must go now.”

He turned away, a hollow ache in his chest, a tremor in his arms.

Aziraphale felt too much. It got in the way of his duties. 

But he was an angel. He was built for obedience. So he’d learned long ago how to shut down all his doubts, all his emotions, and do what needed to be done.

He’d thought – hoped – those instincts were lost. 

Once they kicked in, he didn’t think or hope much of anything at all.

The angel picked up his spear in one hand, his cloak in the other, and walked out of the temple.

\--

Three hundred soldiers marched beside the Tigris, copper-tipped spears blazing in the late afternoon sun. They wore knee-length goat-skin kilts, and long leather cloaks, many covered with thin metal disks. Here and there a copper helmet caught the light, the same conical shapes as the leather ones that marched beside them. If Crawly took the time to look, he could spot bows, knives and more spears, only partly obscured by the tall hide shields.

Crawly didn’t look. He was focused on controlling his chariot, an awkward four-wheeled cart pulled by four donkeys. His wasn’t the only chariot – a dozen more rode at the front of the army, some carrying humans, some demons, one carried Ush the Lord of Umma himself. He had asked no questions about the snake-eyed warrior promoted to join him at the last minute, or the sudden influx of fighters brought by Malthus. The Earl of Hell had been working on him almost as long as Eannatum, and at this point he would accept almost anything.

Seemed like a waste of effort, all things considered.

Crawly’s promotion had come with a new look. A goatskin wrap, running from shoulder to knee, covered with long, thick off-white goat hair. A warrior’s cloak, covered with copper plates so large they overlapped. A helmet, sleek and thick metal decorated to look like the very same red curls Malthus had cut off. The ironies of fashion.

No cosmetics. No adornments, except those Malthus chose – knife, sickle-sword, bronze axe, stone mace, bow, arrows, spears…

It was all a waste. The chariots were too clumsy to maneuver on a field of battle, even worse for a fight on village streets. Everything he wore was for show, to mark him out as one of the special ones, let everyone know which box he belonged in. Warrior. Demon. One of Malthus’s pets.

Twenty of those, mostly Nameless. 

On one side, the wild ones, the chaotic Nameless, barely restrained, ready to charge into the fight at the first sign of blood. Haze was leading them. Haze might as well be one of them.

On the other side, the silent ones, broken, mindless, going where ordered, doing as they were told. Not as far gone as the one with blood-red wings, eternally circling the Armory, but still, not a word or a thought of their own.

Crawly wondered which group he would belong to.

“Faster!” called someone, as the barley fields came into view ahead.

With a shake of the reins, the demon’s chariot sped up, wheels churning the soil and crushing the crop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Once again, I'm sorry...
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta, kindathewholepoint (although this chapter got some last-minute changes from me, so any typos are likely from that).
> 
> Fun fact: This chapter did not exist, except for the final scene. Then I talked to my friend Tod and suddenly this chapter existed. Now, I once got a B in statistics, but I think this is fair proof that everything you just read is Tod's fault.
> 
> (Also I consulted Tod about a lot of my ideas on Falling and then this story was written almost immediately after that. So you could argue this entire story is Tod's fault. Feel free to curse him.)
> 
> The next chapter goes up Friday.
> 
> History note (added later because I forgot): I couldn't find any information on temples in villages as small as I've written Gu'Edena to be, but records from the time indicate that as part of the earlier peace treaty with Umma "temples were erected." This temple of Nisaba is based on a very scaled-down version of the White Temple at Uruk.


	9. War Comes to Gu'Edena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle commences, and an angel and a demon must each make a decision...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Non-graphic violence, warfare (ancient), demons being needlessly cruel, minor character deaths (implied).

With a mind as cold as ice, Aziraphale pushed open the wooden door and walked into the darkened tablet house. The apprentices had all left in a hurry – wet tablets lay abandoned next to baked ones, the pot of midday porridge still sat on the hearth, embers long grown cold.

Aziraphale placed the spear on a bench, laying out the sheepskin cloak beside it, soft hair upwards. One by one, he retrieved the five tablets in his care, stacking them carefully on the cloak. It should be enough to protect them as he traveled. There was no time to wrap them individually. He could repair any minor damage they sustained.

Two letters from other lands. A treatise on timekeeping. New law codes from Kish. Now where was…?

A noise from the corner, behind one of the benches. Aziraphale couldn’t see into the shadows; the sun was too low for the light well to give much aid. He picked up the spear.

“Who is there?” Azirpahale demanded. “Come out, or you will not like what happens next.”

A small, black-haired head appeared from behind the bench.

Aziraphale was three steps from the other bench. By the time he’d taken the first, the spear was raised, braced against his ribs, ready to thrust.

As he took the second step, he realized what he was seeing: one small boy, crawling out from behind the bench, an even smaller figure hiding behind him.

He stopped himself midway through the third.

“Ekur! Neti! What are you two doing here? You should be…”

“My da said to get somewhere safe,” Ekur explained. “This is the safest place in town, right? Because of the door?”

Aziraphale glanced at the wooden door. It was the strongest in the whole village – most homes just had a piece of hide over their entryway – but even with the benches braced against it, it wouldn’t withstand more than a few determined kicks.

“Ekur, do you know where the astronomy tablet is? The one you were looking at earlier?”

“Yes!” the older boy scrambled back behind the bench, and emerged with the sum total of mankind’s knowledge of the stars in his hands. “I was practicing it to try and calm down. I’ve almost got it all memorized, except the last bit.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale took the tablet and added it to his pile. “You boys really shouldn’t be here. Where are your families?”

They glanced at each other. “Fightin’,” said Neti, in his soft, hesitant voice. “Ekur’s da ‘nd my da ‘nd my ma ‘nd my brothers…”

Aziraphale half-listened as he gathered the edges of the cloak to make a sack, tying the corners as securely as he could.

“…’nd Master Ilatum left ‘nd Master Watrum, ‘nd now  _ you’re leaving, too!” _

Aziraphale picked up the spear. Something at the edge of the void that surrounded his mind made him uneasy around the weapon.

In one smooth motion snapped it in half over his knee. “I’m sorry, Ekur, Neti. But there’s something I must do.” He slid the sack onto the two feet of wood from the base of the spear, tossing the rest aside. It seemed strong enough to hold.

“But – but you can’t!” Ekur wailed.

Aziraphale looked down into their desperate faces, and something of his mindless determination wavered. He should at least explain to them that he’d done all he could, that he had a duty to perform. He knelt down and started solemnly. “Boys, I –”

Neti flung his tiny arms around the angel’s neck and started sobbing frantically. A moment later, Ekur’s arms were around his waist, and while the older boy wasn’t crying, his jagged breathing suggested he might start at any moment.

Just like that, the calm in Aziraphale’s mind was shattered, swept aside by a most confusing wave of emotions. 

He’d never been  _ embraced _ by a  _ child _ before! Why? What could he possibly have  _ said _ or  _ done _ to set this off? And what was he supposed to do  _ now? _

He thought perhaps an encouraging back pat might be in order. He waved his hands in the direction of their shoulders. “There, there…” he attempted. It didn’t seem to help. “…there?”

Neti just cried harder. Ekur hung on like Aziraphale was the last solid object in the world.

This was absurd. He had his duty. He didn’t have time for…

_ Those boys came to you for protection. You accepted that role. _

This was not the time to be thinking about Crawley. 

_ Don’t enter that kind of relationship if you’re not willing to take on the responsibility. _

This entire situation was his fault, no one would be in any danger if he had just…just…

_ You can’t just  _ think  _ you’re better than a demon, Aziraphale. You have to  _ be _ better. _

With a sigh somewhere between frustration and acceptance, Aziraphale knew what he had to do.

“Boys, boys,” Ekur sat back to look him in the eyes, but Neti just kept holding on. “It should be safer in the temple than here.” Safer from demons, at least. Perhaps he could miracle up a hiding place in one of the side chambers. “I will walk you over.”

“B-but then you’ll leave.” It was more an accusation than a question, and Aziraphale was surprised how much it hurt.

“Yes. I must. But I promise I’ll get you somewhere safe first.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the first echoes of shouts – of screams – of hooves and chariot wheels reached his ears.

Aziraphale looked up at the light well – the sky was still bright, it was hardly even  _ dusk _ yet – Crawley had said…

But if today had proven anything, it was that the demon couldn’t be trusted.

War had come to Gu’Edena.

\--

It was utter chaos. Pandemonium.

A crowd of villagers stood just outside the boundary ditch, armed with farm tools, many of them stone or even simple wood. Perhaps they hoped to make a wall of their bodies, force the soldiers back by sheer willpower.

The first volley of arrows – shot at a hundred paces – broke that willpower. At least three dozen fell where they stood, and most of the rest turned and fled. The few who tried to stand their ground were too disorganized, didn’t last long.

Someone among the villagers had the presence of mind to pull back the reed platforms, but the boundary ditch was too narrow to serve as defense. Forty soldiers jumped across it in a moment, and seeing there would be no orderly battle, scattered in all directions, chasing down whoever crossed their path, swords and axes in hand. More followed after them.

Three men from Ush pushed down the stele commemorating the peace between the two kingdoms, shattering it to pieces.

Once the reed platforms were thrown back across the ditch, the chariots joined in the fray. Some tried to hold the reins with one hand and a sword or club in the other; many let the animals run where they would and filled the air with arrows. One overbalanced, falling into the ditch, and no one attempted to help it free.

Some figures, on foot or on chariot, were marked by thin streamers of shadow flowing behind them as they crossed the ditch. At first, they fought the in the same manner as the others. Then the wild ones lost control, throwing shields and weapons down in favor of claws and teeth, blood staining their bare chests.

The other demons took this as a signal.

Bow strings broke. Tools fell apart at the handles. Villagers ran into homes to find the walls miraculously collapsing around them. A group of boys stood on a rooftop, throwing stones, managing to knock out a few soldiers, until one with golden hair noticed them and the whole building exploded into flames.

The sound of screaming filled the air like a solid wall.

One demon clung tight to his rattling chariot, trying not to see what went on around him, trying not to listen, trying not to think at all, not knowing what he was looking for until he saw –

The temple of Nisaba, goddess of grain and writing, and beneath it the E-dubba.

And in the next moment, a bolt of lightning fell from the clear sky, striking the temple – then another and another – until the holy building collapsed in on itself.

Between the sounds of battle echoed harsh laughter as Malthus – soaked in sweat from the effort of so completely desecrating a building made sacred by sincere belief – called down another bolt just to be sure.

Every demon in the village could  _ feel _ the presence, the slight pressure on the mind, of the supernatural being not aligned with them. But those close to the temple could now smell something else hanging in the air, something faint. Behind the brimstone and fire and ozone and blood and rot and death – the pure scent of Heaven.

Two pairs of eyes – black, yellow – searched for the source.

There – weaving through the rubble, trying not to be seen, unable to even cast a simple miracle without drawing attention, a figure in white, his right arm carrying a young boy (arms around the angel’s neck, face buried, trying to see nothing, hear nothing), his left hand clutching that of another boy, this one carrying a stick with a sack tied to the end of it (at the last bolt, the sack fell off and the boy flung his arms around the angel’s waist, shouting wordlessly). 

Soldiers all around. Demons. Trapped.

Across the battlefield, blue eyes met gold.

_ Not here not now not like this please Someone give me strength – _

Pulling forth more power than he’d ever attempted in sixteen hundred years, the demon threw up both hands –

And stopped time.

Arrows and stones froze in mid-flight.

Flames stood lifelessly in their dance.

Three hundred soldiers, and whatever was left of three hundred villagers, stopped moving, stopped shouting.

Malthus’s eyes stared forward, unseeing, on the verge of spotting the angel and his charges.

The only sound was the heavy breathing of one angel and one demon, and the sobs of two boys.

He couldn’t hold it. The force of time pressed against him, making his arms tremble. He would crack under this pressure, it would destroy him, it would explode, destroy them all.

But if he could control that explosion, channel it to allow the angel and the boys to move while everything else stood still…

No time to think.

Crawley met those blue eyes again and ground out as loud as he could:  _ “Run!” _

And time rushed back in.

When his vision cleared, Aziraphale and the boys had vanished. Malthus shouted something about finding the angel, chariot rattling off into a village now choking with smoke and dust and blood.

Pandemonium was reinstated.

\--

Hardly a minute had passed – Aziraphale running as fast as he could drag Ekur’s shorter legs – before regular time reasserted itself, yet he found himself at least three miles outside Gu’Edena.

He didn’t know what had happened, and he didn’t allow himself time to think.

“This way, boys,” he said, Neti still cradled in his arm, Ekur stumbling behind him.

It was different from the thoughtless state he’d sunk into before the battle began. It didn’t feel like shock, either. Aziraphale’s mind was completely clear, almost at peace.

Only one thing mattered right now. He had to get these two boys as far as possible from the village.

Which was probably why he failed to notice anything was wrong until Ekur managed to sob out, “Master Aziraphale. I – I lost your tablets.”

The angel looked down. Sure enough, the boy held two feet of spear haft and nothing else.

“Where? When?”

“I don’t know!”

Some part of Aziraphale’s mind acknowledged that this was a disaster. A failure of his duty. The loss of something irreplaceable. His gut wrenched.

But all that was strangely distant. Only one thing mattered right now.

“Never mind. We’ll worry about that later. This way.”

They walked deeper into the desert as dusk fell.

\--

The fighting continued through the night, glorious slaughter.

Malthus could begin to understand the appeal of Earth. There was something so wonderfully final about running a peasant through with a blade, though they could only take a few hits before they fell.

There was no sign of the angel. Its scent lingered near the ruins of the temple, but it must have escaped just before the battle began. That was a pity. He’d picked up a few ideas from the minds of the humans, and very much wanted someone to try them out on. He’d have to find something else for the victory celebration.

Twice the peasants attempted to rally, emerging unexpectedly to try and break through Malthus’s forces. He approved of their attempts at cunning, but cut them down all the same.

Nineteen demons reveled in the chaos and blood, while one craven serpent tried more than once to hide among the shattered buildings. Malthus had always suspected that one lacked a true demon’s spirit, but he had his uses. Entertainment, mostly – the look on his face as Malthus dragged him through the streets, searching for any more humans with the will to fight.

Just before dawn, the king finally arrived with the second army. This should have marked the start of the true battle, but in truth it was almost an anti-climax. One side was enraged beyond all reason by the ruin of the village, the other exhausted from creating that ruin. The two armies met on the open ground outside the settlement, exchanged arrows, then brought the shieldwalls crashing together.

The army of Umma was the first to break, but they had served their purpose. At the moment of greatest confusion – as King Eannatum’s chariot led the rout, driving over the bodies of the fallen – the demons simply switched sides, cutting down their former allies with gleeful abandon.

It was then, amidst the final slaughter, something emerged.

Another warrior. A woman. She wore a crimson goat-hair kilt that matched her hair and a cloak of plates that seemed to glow as she moved.

She walked among the soldiers unarmed, unbothered by the terror that saturated the dawn. She was smiling, watching with the pride of an artist at the unveiling of her newest sculpture. And everywhere she stepped, the fighting grew more intense.

Eannatum’s chariot raced past her, and she blew him a kiss, followed by a girlish laugh.

Then she stood before Malthus, smiling and raising her arm as if to give a salute. For a moment, it appeared as though she held a flaming sword – but then her hand was empty again. He could feel the power coming off her, neither of Hell nor Heaven – something new, something born from the mind of humanity, but far from human. A manifestation.

She winked at him and swaggered off.

And for one brief moment, his mind filled with images and understanding. The battle was winding down, but it wouldn’t end here. Eannantum would chase the army back to Umma and subjugate it. Then the other cities: Ur, Uruk, Nippur. Then the lands of Kish and Elam.

They in turn would fight back, rebel, the battle echoing back and forth across the land. A bigger warlord would come along, re-conquering everything, then another and another.

The swords would get sharper, the spears longer, the chariots faster. New weapons, with fires and explosions and poisoned gases and death falling from the skies.

Names poured into his head, names he’d never heard before – Kadesh, Troy, Thermopylae, Gaugamela, Kalinga, Changping, Zama, Actium, Adrianople, Hastings, Orléans, Vienna, Cajamarca, Osaka, Antietam, Aizu, Normandy, Hiroshima, Meggido –

Such a vision could only come from being close to the Great Plan. Every demon on the battlefield would feel some echo of it, but only Malthus had the intellect to grasp the details, however briefly, before they faded away, leaving only the certainty behind: his plan had succeeded.

War had come to Gu’Edena.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History Notes: Classical scholars have long said that every war in Europe can be ultimately traced back to the Persian War. Logically, then, all wars everywhere can traced back to some early conflict, and perhaps there are no separate wars, simply one endless ongoing War that keeps evolving and changing.
> 
> (Or perhaps not. But it certainly makes for an interesting bit of mythology.)
> 
> There are many historical moments I could have chosen for the origin of War, but Gu'Edena finds itself at the center of many of them. The oldest recorded treaty, the Treaty of Mesilim, was a peace negotiated between Umma and Lagash a century before the events of this story. Mesilim himself was the king of Kish, and may have been able to enforce this treaty through military might. A generation after this story, Entemena of Lagash fought against invaders from Umma twice. A century after the events of the story, Lugal-Zagesi, a priest of Nisaba, usurped the throne of Umma, destroyed Lagash, and united all the kingdoms of Sumer, declaring himself the "Shepherd of the People." He was in the end defeated by Sargon of Akkad, the first Mesopotamian emperor.
> 
> Outside of Mesopotamia, other warriors could be selected - such as Narmer, who conquered all of Egypt before 3,000 BCE. Ultimately I chose Eannatum and the battle of Gu'Edena because, unlike all the others, there is a description of the battle itself.
> 
> The oldest surviving depiction of a battle, The Vulture Stele shows on one side Eannatum of Lagash leading an army of soldiers, both on foot and in a chariot as they trample their fallen enemies, as well as a pile of bodies being pecked by vultures; the reverse side shows Ningirsu (the god of Lagash) and his animal familiar holding an enormous net containing the army of Umma. Near them stands Inanna, goddess of War. Another stele lists the kingdoms Eannatum conquered in detail. He is the first ruler for whom we have such a list from a contemporary source.
> 
> Those interested can learn more from the [Eannatum Boulder](https://arthistoryproject.com/timeline/the-ancient-world/mesopotamia/the-eannatum-boulder/) and the [Vulture Stele.](http://sumerianshakespeare.com/38801.html)
> 
> Note that there are some historical inaccuracies in my story, some for literary effect, and some because the best sources for the time period are in German and Google Translate can only get you so far.
> 
> Thank you for reading, thank you to my beta (kindathewholepoint) who checked for typos and assured me the battle scene was not too overwhelming.
> 
> The final chapter will be posted on Wednesday, and it will be a long one.


	10. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle for Gu'Edena is over. But Crawley's fight continues...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Non-graphic violence, abusive language and threats, aftermath of violence

Crawley had been wandering in the desert for hours. He’d discarded his armor, his weapons, his chariot, everything but the goatskin wrap and the bag in his hand.

At least he could no longer see the vultures circling.

Now and then he would pause, concentrate, turn his feet toward what _felt_ like the right direction. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he’d been going in circles for hours.

Malthus had ordered them all to return to Hell. Said there would be a victory celebration. Rejoice in the new age of human warfare.

Crawley couldn’t remember what excuse he gave. Maybe he hadn’t given any. There wasn’t room for much in his mind but flashing images of violence. Hell was bad enough, humans were bad enough, but put the two together and it was so much worse. And what he’d sensed at the end...

He stumbled to a stop, shaking his head to clear it. _Focus._ His destination seemed so close, but the desert was just flat, hard earth in every direction, not even sand, everything baked solid under the merciless sun, there was no place for someone to be hiding –

There, on the horizon. A small ridge of stone, a crevice somewhere at the base. It was too far away to be seen, but he knew it was there. Crack in a wall. A hiding place.

Impossible to sense another being at that distance, yet he’d been following the trail for hours, a subtle buzz in the back of his mind, barely audible, but now so clear. So certain.

He shouldn’t run in the desert. This body had already taken too much stress, in the struggle the night before, in the hours under the unrelenting sun.

He ran anyway, stumbling, falling, getting back up, feet pounding, narrow chest heaving until finally the ridge loomed before him, he could see the gap, barely a cave just a crack, and inside –

Crawley leaned against the edge of the stone, struggling to catch his breath. In the darkness within, he saw two young boys, kneeling on the ground, the smaller one leaping to his feet at the unexpected arrival.

Then his view was blocked by a flurry of white.

Disheveled hair, torn and dirty waist wrap, two feet of wood clutched like a weapon, surrounded by the light of misty wings, and a faint holy glow that filled the liminal space.

“Crawley. What are you doing here?”

“Aziraphale,” he whispered. “You’re _alive_.” 

Every last ounce of strength vanished from Crawley’s body. He clung to the stone with one hand to keep from falling to his knees, covered his face with the other. For a moment, he couldn’t even speak, only make a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. _“You’re alive.”_

Not discorporated. Not slain by a bloodthirsty demon. Not blown apart by Crawley’s own botched miracle. _Alive._

“How dare you show your face?”

Crawley slowly lowered his hand and met the angel’s eyes.

Those eyes – those blue eyes – held nothing but cold-blooded fury, tinged with hatred. As Aziraphale’s wrath grew, so did the holy glow around him, until his wings weren’t mist at all but flesh and bone and feather – still pale and translucent but undeniably _here_ – until the wooden rod held in his hand burst into holy fire.

He was the very image of an avenging angel, ready to smite the demon, flaming weapon pointed at his staggering heart.

It was the most beautiful thing Crawley had ever seen.

“This cave is under my protection.”

The demon lowered his gaze and saw the two boys, standing behind Aziraphale, watching from the safety of his wings. The younger one – Neti – glared at him, a look of painful accusation. Ekur didn’t seem to be looking at anything at all.

“But I…” Crawley started to step toward the boys and they shrank back – or rather, Neti did, pulling Ekur with him, sheltering behind the angel’s glow.

“But I saved you.” Crawley couldn’t shake the numbness from his brain. They were alive. They were safe. It wasn’t supposed to _be_ like this.

“What about their homes? Their families? Their village?” Aziraphale took a step, advancing on him, until the flames of the improvised holy weapon singed his chest and his chin. Unwavering. _“What have you done?”_

Just then, Neti stepped forward, studying Crawley’s face as if trying to remember him. “You,” the tiny boy said slowly. “I thought you were _nice.”_ His foot shot out and kicked the demon – hard – in the shin, making Crawley gasp. “I’m not afraid of you!” Neti stomped away, gently taking Ekur’s hand. The older boy didn’t respond, simply followed where he was led.

“Good for you, kid,” Crawley muttered. “I knew you were strong.”

“He shouldn’t have to be.” Some of the hatred had faded from Aziraphale’s eyes, replaced with an endless sadness. “I can heal their bodies, but I can’t take away their memories from yesterday. Those scars they’ll carry for the rest of their lives.” For a second his eyes drifted over Crawley’s shoulder, then came back again, resolute. “How many of you are out there? Have you told the others where I am yet?”

“No!” Aziraphale’s words rang in the hollow pit of his stomach. “I didn’t - I wouldn’t!”

“I’ve been sensing demons all day, but I haven’t seen any. Not until now.”

Crawley swallowed. He remembered the strange sense at the back of his mind, despite the miles between them, but it wasn’t something he could grasp. His thoughts were in too much disarray. “It’s just me. After what I...How could you think…” Was he pleading? “You _know_ me.”

“Do I? Did I ever?” Aziraphale sighed. “Why have you come? Haven’t you done _enough?”_

“I wanted to find you,” Crawley managed. “I wanted…” but words were too much at this point. He held up the sack he’d carried through the desert, the one he’d found in the aftermath of the battle. The one made from a sheepskin cloak, knotted together, a faint, pure scent still lingering upon it.

“My tablets,” a breathy whisper. Finally, Aziraphale lowered his makeshift weapon, held out his hand. “Let me see –”

Crawley handed it over, and the angel immediately knelt down, fingers fumbling with the knots, unwrapping it on the ground between them. But too many feet had run back and forth through the village, and hooves, and wheels. When the cloak fell open, Aziraphale found a few large clay pieces, many small ones, and far too much dust. Clay broken back down to particulate.

“I tried to fix them but,” Crawley snapped his fingers over the pile, as he had in Gu’Edena, after the battle. As he had in the desert, again and again as his strength returned. It made no difference. The broken tablets didn’t even stir. “But I can’t – I can’t _picture_ them correctly, Angel. I can’t read.”

Slowly, Aziraphale raised his eyes – and his weapon – to Crawley again. The glow about him was now nearly blinding, his wings as solid and real as they had been on the Wall of Eden. He stood, towering over Crawley, filling his vision, until nothing else seemed to exist.

Crawley couldn’t turn away. His every demonic instinct should have been to run, but the beauty of it called to him, pulled at his heart, even as the look in Aziraphale’s eyes very nearly killed him on the spot.

_“Get out!”_

\--

Crawley had not gone far; Aziraphale could still sense him, quite clearly.

At first the angel was content to ignore him, tending to the two boys. He could miracle up the things they needed – blankets, simple food, waterskins – but it wasn’t enough. Would probably never be enough.

He’d tried sifting through the broken tablets heaped on the floor. Where he could find two pieces that fit together, he could miracle them whole, but it was a slow process, and there was just too much damage. He’d already given up twice.

The sun would be setting soon. They could spend another night here, but he would need to find a place for the boys to go, need to report back to Heaven and try to explain everything that had happened – and Crawley was _still sitting just outside._

He knelt to try the tablets a third time, and his eyes fell on the bright silver metal around his wrist. The only object he’d taken out of Gu’Edena; he’d almost forgotten it was there. Why had he even picked this up?

He knew why.

Checking to make sure the two boys were asleep, he stepped out into the twilight.

Given how clearly he could sense the demon, he’d assumed Crawley would be lurking just beyond the cave entrance, but the whole area was empty. It took a moment for Aziraphale to spot him, sitting downslope, throwing rocks into the desert. Without the black robe or long hair, he seemed to just blend into the bare earth like an apparition.

Aziraphale approached cautiously, not sure how to begin. “So. Still here I see.”

“Nh.” Another thrown rock. There weren’t many left within arm's reach.

It was so strange to see him like this - as if he’d been stripped of more than just his hair and his jewelry. As if he was somehow not completely there. Fading.

“Won’t your superiors be looking for you?”

“’m already hours late. He’ll… _they’ll_ be angry either way.”

“How…how did the battle end?”

“Didn’t.”

“It _didn’t?”_ Aziraphale sat next to Crawley, leaning in to try and meet his eyes. The demon didn’t turn away; didn’t react to his presence at all. “What do you mean? You ran off in the middle of the fight? Why?”

“No. I stayed to the end.” He threw another stone, which bounced away into the distance. “Your king showed up. Killed the lord of Umma, chased his army back across the border.” For a moment, Crawley seemed to be scrutinizing something Aziraphale couldn’t see. “It won’t stop there. It’ll keep going. Forever.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “You have a lot of confidence in your side, but we –”

“Not us.” Crawley reached for another stone, but his fingers only met bare ground. “The humans, all on their own. That was the plan. I didn’t see it until too late. Not to make that king a great warlord, but to start a war that would go on and on, growing and evolving and getting more violent until…” He shook his head. “We pushed them until we broke them. I broke them.”

“Crawley…”

The demon stood up abruptly. “Some of the villagers survived. Your boys might still have family. Hard to tell, the vultures were hard at work when I left.” He started to walk away – slouched, shuffling, shoulders hunched.

“Crawley, wait!” Aziraphale reached out, fingers brushing down bare arm.

The demon flinched away, as if the touch burned. Aziraphale pulled his hand back, shocked at the reaction.

But of course.

After the way he’d acted in the cave, what was Crawley supposed to expect? Aziraphale’s heart sank.

“You came all this way. You sat out here for hours. You wouldn’t have done that unless…” He folded his arms, bare chest and shoulders suddenly cold despite the desert heat. “Please, just talk to me.”

Slowly, so slowly, Crawley sat back down. “Are you still mad?”

“I don’t know.” His hands twisted together. “Maybe I was never truly angry. I’ve been so worried and so frightened for the last day, I don’t know what I’m feeling anymore.” The tangle of emotions hadn’t gone anywhere. Betrayed by Crawley, angry at himself for foolish mistakes, horrified by what he’d seen in Gu’Edena. It would take ages to sort through it all. “But I think you’re wrong. Whatever comes of this, it must be part of the Great Plan –”

“Don’t!” Crawley’s voice sounded oddly strained. “Don’t start. Because if it’s a choice between being the one who broke humanity and being a pawn in the Plan, I don’t –” He broke off, face tight with pain, gasping for breath, shoulders heaving.

Aziraphale waited, alarmed, until finally the demon whispered: “I didn’t Fall for this.”

The angel had to grit his teeth in an effort not to jump on the remark. Crawley never – ever – spoke about his Fall, and Aziraphale had promised never to ask. The wrong word now might drive him away forever. And looking at the vulnerable, wretched face beside him, Aziraphale knew – that was one thing he didn’t want.

“I don’t know what I expected.” Crawley made a sound that was, perhaps, supposed to be a laugh. “I don’t know if I expected _anything._ My memories are too much of a mess. But Hell keeps…changing. New ideas, new torments. New ways to make things miserable. And I don’t…I don’t know where I fit in anymore. I don’t want to be violent, I’m so _tired_ of being angry, and I hate _manipulating_ people. I never wanted... _any_ of this.”

“But, Crawley, you love Tempting, you always say…”

“No, Aziraphale. Temptation is about giving someone a choice. You try to make them choose what you want, but it’s always _their choice._ What choice did anyone have in Gu’Edena?”

“Including us,” the angel said, trying to keep his voice steady. Crawley bunched his fists in the hair of his wrap, still not turning to face him. “Plan or not, what happened in that village was out of our hands. For the most part.” He sighed. “And the parts we could control...I believe we are both equally to blame.” Aziraphale waited, hoping the demon would say something to that, anything. Just silence. “Still, you had your orders, I had mine – there was nothing either of us could have done differently.”

“You could have trusted me.” There was no anger in the accusation, just bitter exhaustion.

“And _you_ could have trusted _me_ with your plan,” Aziraphale snapped, then tried to soften his voice. “But that’s not who we are, is it? I do enjoy your company, but we’re on opposite sides. It’s probably best if we don’t trust each other in that way.”

This didn’t seem to comfort Crawley at all – he was bent over, shoulders and arms pulled in on himself, staring across the desert. Aziraphale had rarely seen him so motionless.

“You know…” the angel tried again, “you weren’t wrong. I did attempt to change the message, ensure the battle would be elsewhere. But it was too late.”

“Did you have to send it?” Crawley dragged his fingers through the short red bristles, all that remained of his carefully maintained curls. His voice sounded so small. “Were you that afraid I’d hurt you?”

“Oh, my dear fellow, _no,”_ Aziraphale said, with such feeling Crawley finally lifted his gold eyes to meet the angel’s. “I just knew, whatever hurt you so badly wasn’t something I could handle alone.”

Crawley crossed his arms. “I told you, those wounds were voluntary.”

“All of them?” The demon turned away. Aziraphale’s gut still twisted at the memory of the damage he’d sensed, and even more so at the way Crawley had acted as if it were nothing.

“It’s Hell, Angel. You wouldn’t understand.”

Another subject he was forced to drop. “I didn’t actually mean your injuries, in any case.” Crawley met his gaze again, and Aziraphale was certain he could see it: behind the already-slipping mask of arrogance and bravado, behind the exhaustion and pain, _fear._

The sort of fear that went right down to the depths of the soul, and never left.

“I didn’t want to ask Heaven for help until it was my last choice. I knew it wouldn’t have ended well for you. And since you wouldn’t tell me... I had to turn to the humans. I did what I thought was best. I didn’t mean to make it worse. I – I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

As Crawley’s eyes began to drift away again, Aziraphale remembered the bit of metal at his wrist. “Ah, there is one other thing I can do.” And he carefully pulled off the one item he had taken from Gu’Edena – the serpent armband Crawley had discarded. “I can return this to you.”

“Why…?” With wide eyes and gentle fingers that the angel had never expected, Crawley took back the silver adornment, turning it slowly in his hands.

“Well, it doesn’t fit me – too small for an arm band, too big for a bracelet.”

“No.” His fingers brushed across the eyes of the serpent as if they were more precious than diamonds. “Why did you pick it up?”

“Because…”

He knew why. He _thought_ he knew why, but now it came to it, he had no words. After Crawley had stormed out of the village, he’d simply pulled the piece of jewelry out of the ditch. It had seemed like the natural thing to do.

_Because you were right._

_Because I should have trusted you._

_Because I was afraid I’d never see you again._

Aziraphale’s face turned warm. Absolutely not. He wasn’t sentimental enough for _that_ to be the reason, it was simply his mind playing tricks on him.

"Well, why did you try to pick up my tablets?"

"They're important to you," Crawley said simply, not looking up.

“Oh." He tried to ignore the way the warmth spread. "Then I suppose I knew how important your silly adornments are to you.” He wished he could think of something more meaningful.

“Who do you think I am?”

“Wh – I’m sorry?” Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of the flat tone. “I didn’t mean to offend you –”

“No.” Crawley studied the arm band, scratching a bit of mud off with his thumbnail. “You’re the one who’s been insisting all along that I’m not acting like myself. So what the Heaven do you think is normal for me?”

“I suppose you’re right.” Aziraphale started to stand up, crushed at how completely his words had been rejected. “A dozen conversations in sixteen hundred years is really nothing at all. I won’t –”

“Aziraphale. Please.” The angel looked at the figure sitting next to him, hunched over, faded and lost against the empty desert. “Just tell me.”

With a sigh, he settled down, searching for the right words. “I’m not sure. You’re a little different every time I see you. But that’s part of you, too. Adaptable, perhaps, certainly changeable.”

He paused, waiting for some sign from Crawley, whether this was what the demon was looking for. No response. “You’re…confident. You’re brash. You’re intense to the point of being downright terrifying, even when you aren’t angry. And when you are…oh,” Aziraphale shivered, remembering the times he’d been on the receiving end of the demon’s rage. “But you don’t let it control you. No matter how furious, you wouldn’t hurt someone.”

Crawley rubbed a hand across his eyes. “I don’t know if any of that’s true.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale swallowed, but tried to press on. “Well. You’re...curious, I suppose. You love trying new things, visiting new places. You don’t like talking to people, but you do it all the time, anyway, because you want to learn everything they have to teach you. I used to worry about how you would use that information, but now I know it’s not about _using_ it, it’s just about _knowing_ and that’s – that’s something I can respect.” 

Realizing what he’d said, the angel’s tone became stern. “Not that I can respect a _demon_ , but, well, I suppose I don’t have to despise _everything_ about you, either. Not the way you get excited over new technology, no matter how mundane. Not your taste in music or clothes, not always at least. Not the way you insist on trying every food made from apples regardless of how disgusting it turns out, though I still think you only do that to vex me.”

The noise Crawley made at that might almost have been a laugh, but one broken under a great weight. “Pretty sure you’ve specifically told me you detest _all_ of those things, one time or another.”

“Well. Perhaps my own feelings are complex.” He glanced at Crawley, then looked down at his own folded hands. “One thing I know for certain is, you are a far better demon than I am an angel.”

That, finally, was enough to get Crawley to face him, if only to stare in disbelief. “You can’t _possibly_ believe that!”

“Oh, I’ve known that from the beginning.” He tried to smile; he hoped it was convincing. He had been practicing. “I struggle to understand people, to see what they need. Even when I _want_ to help them, I don’t know what to do. I spent _months_ wondering how to help Neti, when directly interfering would have lost me my assignment, when no one in the village even seemed to care. But you knew exactly what he needed to hear the moment you met him.”

“And then I led an army that wiped out his entire village.”

“Crawley.” Aziraphale reached across to touch his hand, but pulled back when the demon jerked away again. “I know you didn’t truly intend that. And the things you told him did make a difference. He was terrified of everyone, and now he’s willing to stand up to a demon. You woke something in him, for better or for worse. I could almost believe you understood exactly how that boy felt.”

“And that comes from being a demon?”

“No, that comes from being _you.”_ Aziraphale sighed. “I do my best, but I doubt I’ve ever been able to truly _help_ anyone in a lasting way, or even inspired them to help themselves. I wish I could but, as I said, you’re a far better demon than I am an angel.”

“I still don’t think that’s true,” Crawley said dismissively. “You do help people, even if you don’t see it. You saved those boys.”

“I couldn’t save the village. And I tried everything. I even contacted Heaven, but the Archangels were apparently too busy to check in.”

“Yeah, they’ll still be meeting with the Dark Council.”

 _“WHAT?”_ Crawley’s eyes flicked over, and Aziraphale’s heart almost burst to see – finally – the tiniest edge of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Probably shouldn’t have told you that. It’s been in the works for some time – something about the equitable division of souls. Fair terms of engagement. No more direct attacks on each other. Rules for how to interact with humans.”

“How do you…?”

“Well, as you said. I like to know things.”

“I can’t believe the Archangels would work with…we’re supposed to be _enemies!_ And surely your lot can’t be trusted to follow any agreement.”

“I suppose we can’t.” His brow furrowed, looking at the arm band. “This truce was supposed to curb demons like…well, things like what happened in Gu’Edena. Demons starting battles from nothing, playing both sides. But if we really kicked off a war that will never end, that must change things. I don’t know what it means.”

For a long moment they both sat in silence, but for the first time in two days, it was a silence without tension or fear. There was something about it that felt familiar, welcoming. Aziraphale tried not to think about what that might mean.

“What will you do now?” Crawley finally asked. “Without your tablets.”

“I believe I can fix the one on timekeeping, at least enough to be partially legible. The rest are beyond my skill.” He sighed. The two letters were an especially distressing loss. Anything to help build back ties between lands was crucial. It was entirely possibly there would never be more like them. He needed time to process that. Crawley didn’t hurry him.

“Still,” Aziraphale said when he was ready, “since Ekur had the astronomy tablet nearly memorized, one could argue that a copy of it exists in his head. In that case, my duty would be to protect him, until he is ready to share that knowledge again.”

“And if he’s never ready? That kid has been through a lot.”

“I’m not sure. But I can find him a safe place, and help him start to heal. And Neti can take care of him, protect him. Probably help in ways I cannot.” Aziraphale looked solemnly at Crawley. “I…can’t say I know much about caring for young humans. I seem to have made quite the mess of it so far. But...I will try to do better.”

Crawley nodded, apparently focused on cleaning every bit of mud off the armband. “And you’re sure your superiors will agree?”

“Absolutely! This is a clear continuation of my assigned duty.” Of course, mid-ranked angels like Hizkiel might not see it that way; many of them lacked the imagination for such reasoning. Aziraphale would need to phrase this carefully, to be sure it wouldn’t cause any confusion. “And you? Where will you go?”

“Back to Hell.” His voice was grim. “I need to report. Face the consequences.”

“Will you be alright?”

Crawley gave the armband one last polish, then slid it back on, fitting it securely on his bicep. He traced the serpent’s head with a finger. “I usually am. I’ll figure something out.” The smirk he wore wasn’t quite up to his usual standards, but it was an improvement.

As they both stood, a sudden impulse hit Aziraphale. He held out his hand. “Until next time?”

Crawley looked for a moment, then reached out to clasp his own hand around Aziraphale’s. “Until next time.”

The angel was always surprised by how warm Crawley felt, but he seemed even more so than usual. There was strength in his grip, but something gentle, almost delicate, as well. They held the clasp longer than was probably necessary, until Aziraphale, unsure what to do, pulled away.

But the smile on Crawley’s face – which he could just see out of the corner of his eye – finally looked genuine. “I hope this time it won’t be as long.”

\--

The small raised platform stood just outside the entrance to Malthus’s Armory. The Earl liked to step out and observe the masses shuffling around in the crowded space below, see fights breaking out wherever two were pressed too close together. As a snake, Crawley couldn’t enjoy the view – he mostly saw hazy shapes moving about in the darkness – but away from the crowd it was easier to feel the tremor of footfalls in his belly.

Three beings inside the Armory, and one not moving very much.

When the door burst open, he was prepared, lying coiled in the shadows. Two sets of feet passed – one figure dragging another with no strength to stand, never mind walk. Crawley shot past them, moving across the floor inside. The smell of blood was thick in the air, not a promising sign for Malthus’s mood.

“There you are, my pretty.” The voice was distorted by distance, almost too much for him to understand. “What took you so long?”

Slowly, Crawley shifted back to his preferred shape, feeling the bruises in his ribs, picked up in the halls, rearrange to accommodate the new form. When his wings spread, he was relieved to see the right one unbroken, though his feathers were still worryingly thin.

“I’m ssorry Masster,” he said, then paused to try and steady his tongue. “I went for a walk to clear my head after the battle.”

“Well. You missed the celebration.”

Crawley glanced at the floor, at the red patterns that were fresher, wetter, more extensive than his last visit.

He made himself keep looking.

Feathers scattered all over the floor, swimming in pools of deep red, so he couldn’t tell their original color, but wouldn’t they have to be white to be so perfectly dyed – _don’t think that, he’s safe, you know he’s safe –_

“I suppose I prefer to celebrate in my own way,” he muttered, keeping his breathing even. Now that he’d looked at the feathers, it was impossible to look away.

“That is a pity.” Malthus stepped closer, tracing a talon along Crawley’s jaw. “I find celebrating together is so important. It helps my pets get along.”

Crawley’s eyes finally landed on a feather close enough to see clearly: not blood-soaked, but blood red.

There was no one in the Armory but the two of them.

Malthus followed his gaze. “Since you failed to capture the angel, and none of us could find it, we had to make do.”

Crawley glanced quickly at the table – knives and hammers, coated with blood So much blood, even for a demon, but demons could heal back from nearly anything, couldn’t they?

“Is she…still alive?”

Malthus smiled. “Of course. Who else will clean my weapons? Even for a Nameless, she knows how to be useful. That’s why she was my _third_ choice for this.”

“And your second choice…” Crawley finally met Malthus’s black gaze. “Didn’t return when ordered?”

Malthus laughed – it was a harsh laugh, too deep, too dry, but the rhythm of it was almost pleasant. He reached out a hand to caress Crawley’s shoulder, then shoved him hard into the Armory wall, metal weapons rattling with the impact. Spears and axes clattered to the ground.

“Well aren’t you a clever little piece of shit?” Malthus snarled, leaning close, pressing his arm across Crawley’s throat. “I always knew you were too smart for your own good. Lurking in hallways. Asking questions. Getting me to talk more about things you shouldn’t know. But you have been playing a dangerous game, snake.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Crawley managed, trying to pull free.

“Don’t you?” Malthus grabbed an arrow off the wall, thrust it into the muscle of Crawley’s shoulder, twisting it to make the opening wider. Crawley ground his teeth against the pain. “Convincing me to give you a valuable assignment? Letting an angel get away?” He pulled the arrow out and slashed it across Crawley’s chest, then his cheek – not deep cuts, but they stung. “Who do you work for?”

Crawley stood frozen in place, afraid even to raise his hand to try and slow the bleeding on his shoulder. “I work for you,” he said, not needing to fake the quiver in his voice.

“Who else?” The tip of the arrowhead was suddenly at his throat, pressing in, piercing the flesh. “Is it one of those pompous shits on the Dark Council pushing for a _stable arrangement_ with Heaven? Or is it one of the other Earls? Andromalius? Barbatus? That bastard is always vying for a promotion.”

“I swear, I’m only loyal to you!”

“Then who healed you? _Who are you trying to protect?”_

Silver-white hair and blue eyes – the only eyes that ever looked at him with kindness – flashed through his mind.

“Myself!” The pinpoint pressure on his throat eased a little.

All the words spilled out in a rush. Crawley didn't have the strength to stop them. “I’m a coward, Master, everyone knows it. I’m not loyal to anyone. There isn’t a demon in all of Hell I wouldn’t betray to save my own skin, yourself included. I hid during the battle, I didn’t confront the angel, and I’ve been trading information to other demons for healing and favors for years, for _decades.”_

“What other demons?”

“Whoever would listen! Dukes, Earls, low-ranked demons. Whoever wanted to know.”

Malthus slapped the side of Crawley’s head, hard enough to send him reeling, grabbing the long haft of a spear for balance. Trying not to cower. The sharp pain in his ear made him think Malthus had stabbed him with the arrow, but no – there was a strange buzzing sound. Ruptured eardrum.

“Well,” Malthus said sourly. “I’m disappointed, but I can’t say I’m surprised. You certainly are a worthless, ungrateful schemer. And after all I’ve done to take care of you over the years.”

Crawley bit his tongue, not trusting himself to speak. It was almost over. Malthus would ask for some token or sign of loyalty, maybe a lecture, and things would go back to the way they’d been. It had taken him far too long to realize that this was the only way to survive in Hell.

Malthus’s talons stroked Crawley’s chin, then traced down his arm, settling on the serpent armband. Crawley hadn’t had any place to hide it this visit, so it was here for anyone to see. “This is very pretty. I’ll take it.”

Crawely looked at the armband. Silver white serpent with blue lapis lazuli eyes.

He stepped back from Malthus, pulling himself up straight. “No.”

“What did you say to me?” His tone was colder than the deepest pits of Hell.

“No. You can’t have that.”

“I am your protector and you will give me that, you worthless nameless demon.”

“You are a shit protector, Malthus,” Crawley snarled, pulling the spear free from the wall, leveling the point between them. “And I have a name.”

“Put that down now, coward, and I’ll only make you pay for it a little afterward.”

“No!” Crawley stepped carefully on the floor, sticky with blood, slick where his own still dripped off his chest and shoulder to join it. “There’s not going to be an ‘afterward.’” His hands gripped the spear lightly, holding it close to his bruised ribs. “You’re going to let me walk out of here, and I’m never going to see you again.”

“And who do you think is going to take you in, knowing you’re a self-serving spy without a loyal bone in your body? You’re a joke, Crawly.”

“My name,” he pointed the spear at Malthus’s throat, “is _Crawley!”_

As expected, Malthus easily knocked aside the point as Crawley thrust it towards him. What surprised the Earl was that Crawley let it swing away, then brought it back with as much force as he could muster, cracking it into the side of Malthus’s head like a hammer, breaking the shaft in half.

Malthus fell to the floor, looking up with dazed shock.

Crawley stood over him, wings flared, two feet of wood pointed at his chest. He didn’t feel afraid, or angry. Something else filled him, giving him strength. “Fine. If no one will have me, I’m on my own. I’ve done it before.”

“That was before. Things have changed.”

“I’ll change with them.” He carefully stepped back, steadily, wood in his hand not wavering.

“They’ll eat you alive.”

Crawley laughed. “Don’t you understand? _They already do._ You’re just as much a joke as I am, the Earl of Hell who thinks he’s a king, and his pretty little army of fake warriors. Outside that door, your name means _nothing._ And inside…it’s just a private place to scream.”

Crawley shook his head. “I don’t know why I never saw it before. I really thought this was keeping me safe but...you’re as dangerous as anything out there.” One more step back and he felt his wings brush the door. “I think I finally understand why all your recruits are one step away from Nameless. Any demon with an ounce of self-respect would leave you in a minute. I might not have any of that, but I’ll leave all the same.”

“Just you wait. You have no idea what we accomplished today –”

“Oh, your unending war? Not really my style, trying to change the world to suit me.”

“But it worked. And now the Dark Council will _have_ to listen to my demands. I can make your life more miserable than you can even imagine. Walk out that door, and you will regret it.”

“Probably,” Crawley smiled, “except I don’t do regrets.”

He stepped out onto the landing and slammed the door, wedging the broken spear haft in to keep it shut. It would come apart with a good kick, but it was more about the message.

Turning around, he surveyed the endless mass of demons below. They hadn’t even looked up at the noise of his exit.

Some day they would. Some day every demon would know his name.

For now, he pulled in his ragged wings and manifested some better clothes – a black linen dress that hung to the floor, a string of beads, though not as nice as the ones he’d lost. It would do until he found something better.

Crawley smiled down at the silver snake wrapped around his arm, giving him strength, keeping him safe. His protector. 

No.

His Guardian.

“Looks like we’re on our own,” he said, starting down the stairs. “No Earls or Dukes or elaborate plans. Just me.”

_Brash. Adaptable. Curious. Intense. Changeable. Confident._

Not much of an identity, but it was a place to start.

Crawley stepped into the mob, walking against the flow. Not shoving and hitting the way the others did, but swaggering with the confidence of someone who knows they are right and everyone else can just shuffle around and accommodate them.

He didn’t quite feel that confidence yet, but it would come. 

He’d be something new. His own kind of demon. He’d get to decide what that meant.

And he’d do it with style.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Long breath exhaled*
> 
> That's all of it. The longest *completed* story I've ever written. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who took this journey with me! I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> I plan to do a follow-up, just a short story, showing the next time Crowley and Aziraphale meet, and the outcome of the attempted truce. If you feel like any questions were left unanswered, please let me know in the comments!
> 
> First, though, I'll be posting a few lighter stories to help us recover from all that. Saturday will be a short prequel, set in the Garden of Eden, between the last two chapters of "Early Days."
> 
> There is still plenty more to come in Sawdust of Words, but I do need a bit of a break after this. Make sure you subscribe to the series to stay updated on stories, or follow me [on Tumblr](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/) for more Good Omens content, including metas and one-off stories.
> 
> Thanks to my beta, kindathewholepoint, without whom I almost certainly would never have gotten this far.
> 
> And finally, thanks to my readers - your comments, kudos, and general support have kept me going. Happy holidays (whatever you celebrate) and I hope to see you all next time!

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to comment below, ESPECIALLY if you feel that a tag or TW was missing!


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